FOR A TABLET AT SILBURY HILL.
THIS mound, in some remote and dateless day
Reared o'er a Chieftain of the Age of Hills,
May here detain thee, Traveller! from thy road
Not idly lingering. In his narrow house
Some Warrior sleeps below, whose gallant deeds
Haply at many a solemn festival
The Scald hath sung; but perished is the song
Of praise, as o'er these bleak and barren downs
The wind that passes and is heard no more.
Go, Traveller, and remember, when the pomp
Of earthly glory fades, that one good deed,
Unseen, unheard, unnoted by mankind,
Lives in the eternal register of Heaven.
BRISTOL, 1796.
FOR A MONUMENT IN THE NEW FOREST.
Tms is the place where William's kingly power Did from their poor and peaceful homes expel, Unfriended, desolate, and shelterless,
The inhabitants of all the fertile tract
Far as these wilds extend. He levelled down
Their little cottages, he bade their fields
Lie waste, and forested the land, that so
More royally might he pursue his sports.
If that thine heart be human, Passenger!
Sure it will swell within thee, and thy lips
Will mutter curses on him. Think thou then
What cities flame, what hosts unsepulchred
Pollute the passing wind, when raging Power
Drives on his bloodhounds to the chase of Man ;
And, as thy thoughts anticipate that day
When God shall judge aright, in charity
Pray for the wicked rulers of mankind.
FOR A TABLET ON THE BANKS OF A
Recline thee. If the Sun rides high, the breeze,
That loves to ripple o'er the rivulet,
Will play around thy brow, and the cool sound
Of running waters soothe thee. Mark how clear
They sparkle o'er the shallows; and behold,
Where o'er their surface wheels with restless speed
Yon glossy insect, on the sand below
How its swift shadow flits. In solitude
The rivulet is pure, and trees and herbs
Bend o'er its salutary course refreshed;
But, passing on amid the haunts of men,
It finds pollution there, and rolls from thence
A tainted stream. Seek'st thou for HAPPINESS?
Go, Stranger, sojourn in the woodland cot
Of INNOCENCE, and thou shalt find her there.
FOR THE CENOTAPH AT ERMENONVILLE.
STRANGER! the MAN of NATURE lies not here:
Enshrined far distant by the Scoffer's side
His relics rest, there by the giddy throng
With blind idolatry alike revered.
Wiselier directed have thy pilgrim feet
Explored the scenes of Ermenonville. ROUSSEAU
Loved these calm haunts of Solitude and Peace;
Here he has heard the murmurs of the lake,
And the soft rustling of the poplar grove,
When o'er its bending boughs the passing wind
Swept a gray shade. Here, if thy breast be full,
If in thine eye the tear devout should gush,
His SPIRIT shall behold thee, to thine home
From hence returning, purified of heart.
FOR A MONUMENT AT OXFORD.
HERE Latimer and Ridley in the flames
Bore witness to the truth. If thou hast walked
Uprightly through the world, just thoughts of joy
May fill thy breast in cóntemplating here
Congenial virtue. But if thou hast swerved.
From the straight path of even rectitude,
Fearful in trying seasons to assert
The better cause, or to forsake the worse
Reluctant, when perchance therein inthralled
Slave to false shame, oh! thankfully receive
The sharp, compunctious motions that this spot
May wake within thee, and be wise in time,
And let the future for the past atone.
FOR A MONUMENT IN THE VALE OF EWIAS.
HERE was it, Stranger, that the patron Saint
Of Cambria passed his age of penitence,
A solitary man; and here he made
His hermitage, the roots his food, his drink
Of Hodney's mountain stream.
Has read with eager wonder how the Knight
Of Wales in Ormandine's enchanted bower
Slept the long sleep; and, if that in thy veins
Flow the pure blood of Britain, sure that blood
Hath flowed with quicker impulse at the tale
Of David's deeds, when through the press of war
His gallant comrades followed his green crest
To victory. Stranger! Hatterill's mountain heights,
And this fair vale of Ewias, and the stream
Of Hodney, to thine after-thoughts will rise
More grateful, thus associate with the name
Of David and the deeds of other days.
BATH, 1798.
EPITAPH ON ALGERNON SIDNEY.
HERE Sidney lies, he whom perverted law,
The pliant jury, and the bloody judge,
Doomed to a traitor's death. A tyrant King
Required, an abject country saw and shared,
The crime. The noble cause of Liberty
He loved in life, and to that noble cause
In death bore witness; but his Country rose
Like Samson from her sleep, and broke her chains,
And proudly with her worthies she enrolled
Her murdered Sidney's name. The voice of man
Gives honor, or destroys; but earthly power
Gives not, nor takes away, the self-applause
Which on the scaffold suffering virtue feels,
Nor that which God appointed its reward.
WESTBURY, 1798.
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