THE AUTHOR OF "DARTMOOR." 87 



Amid those drear memorials. On the brow 

 Of yon commanding eminence, appear 

 Thy relics, Trematojj ! — enough remains 

 Wreck of baronial pride, and pow'r, and pomp, 

 Of thee, to tell the traveller how great. 

 How haughty, how magnific once ! — alas, 

 To tell him, too, on what a basis Man 

 Builds his delusive hopes ! The day is gone 

 When rampant o'er thy proud begirting walls 

 Floated the war-defying banner, high, 

 •And to the foeman ominous, it streamed 

 O'er thee, and thy departed steel-clad hosts ! 

 Those hosts, no more shall stern Ambition's voice, 

 The pulse of conflict, and the blast of Fame 

 Awake, — dull silence is upon them all I 

 The fathomless obscurity of Fate 

 Envelopes them as they had never been ! 

 It is the triumph of resistless Time, 

 Man and his labours must submit to him ! 

 He throws the column from its solid base ! 

 He saps e'en now thy withering remains, 

 Majestic Tiiematon, and 'till the hour, 

 When he, exulting, on the ground shall dash 

 Thy walls, now trembling to the western gale. 

 He clothes them with his spirit-chilling green, 

 His dark and fav'rite ivy, cheerless plant, 

 Sacred to desolation f ^' 



A VILLAGE CHURCH. 



<* Deep seated in the foliage of the hill. 



And rising o'er the wood-cloth'd creek which winds 



A course perplexed, yet pleasant to its foot. 



Above it, on the midway slope, the tower 



Of BoTusFLEMiNG rises. Who loves not 



At happy distance, to discover thus 



The house of God uplift its ancient walls. 



Wreathed in the verdant honours of the year ? 



Within that sacred fane have race on race. 



The children of the upland and the dale, 



Devoutly worshipp'd — and beneath the mounds, 



The grassy mounds which stud the village-yard 



Withdrawn to rest, at last. O'er some of these 



The flight of centuries has passed, alas .' 



Above the wept remains of others, yet 



The fresh-reared hillock waves not in the wind 



Its friendly robe of green." 



