Of holy thoughts he spake, and purpose high,
Dead in his heart, and yet like spectres stirring;
Of Hope that could not either live or die,

And Faith confused with self-abhorred demurring.

How beautiful the feet that from afar

Bring happy tidings of eternal good:

Then kiss the feet that so bewildered are;

They cannot farther go where fain they would.

III.

I saw his coffin-'twas enough I saw

That he was gone-that his deep wound was healed; No more he struggles betwixt faith and law,

The fulness of his bliss is now revealed:

He rests in peace; in Langdale's peaceful vale
He sleeps secure beneath the grassy sod;

Ah, no! he doth not-he hath heard "All hail

66

Thou faithful servant," from the throne of God!

TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES GREENWOOD.

I.

OH, Death! thou art indeed an awful thing
Did we believe in all we ought to know;
Yet ever brooding, thine invisible wing

Casts not a shadow in the vale below.

With vernal thyme the turfy hillocks swell,

Old Fairfield's side is sweet with fragrant larches,

And the slim lady birch he loved so well

With paly verdure decks her graceful arches.

The lovely things to which he gave a soul,
Till they became a body to his mind,
Are what they were before the booming toll

Declared his corse to hallow'd earth consign'd.

Yet in one house, that stands upon the brow,

One thought of death and of the dead is all ; Their depth of grief is all their comfort now,! They pray to God to help their tears to fall.

II.

He whom they miss, he was not of this land,
No grey-coat shepherd of the hill or plain;
For he was born where the tall chimneys stand,
And the hot wheels are whirring still for gain.

And yet as well he loved the mountain height
As he himself had been a mountain boy,
As well he loved the croft with daisies dight
As one that never knew a fiercer joy.

Sure thou hast seen, whoever thou may'st be,
If thou hast ever seen a London square,

A pining thing that ought to be a tree,
And would be so if not imprison'd there.

And haply thought how beautiful and large
The limbs and leaves of that imprison'd thing
Had been, if planted by the emerald marge

Of dripping well to shade the grateful spring.

'Twas so with him: in office close and dun

Full soon he learn'd the needful lore of trade; Skill'd to compute how much the bargain won, And ponder hard if more might have been made.

But not the spirit of the world which grew

Still more and more beyond the state's control,
Could quench his thirst of beauty or subdue
The love of Nature which possess'd his soul.

So he became a dweller of the hills,

And learned to love the village ways so well, He prized the stream that turned the wealthiest mills Less than the syke that trickles down the fell.

III.

Sad doth it seem, but nought is truly sad,
Or only sad that we may better be;
We should in very gulphs of grief be glad,
The great intents of God could we but see.

Think of the souls that he in heaven will meet,
Some that on earth he knew and loved most dearly;

And whose perfection at their Saviour's feet,

Without a stain of earth, will shine so clearly.

Think, too, of souls on earth unknown to him, Whom he will know as well as kin or neighboursLaborious saints, that now with seraphim

Expect the blessed fruit of all their labours.

Think that he is what oft he wished to be

While yet he was a mortal man on earth; Then weep, but know that grief's extremity Contains a hope which never was in mirth.

June, 1845.

VOL. II.