"my native village/^ 189 



the tranquility around him, except the small sound of 

 the passing wind, or the clear melody of some passion- 

 ate bird ; how sadly, yet calmly, will he think on the 

 tenants of each green mound before him. 



The storm that shakes the wintry sky 

 No more disturbs their deep repose, 

 Nor summer evening's mildest sigh 

 That shuts the rose I 



The opening passages of the poem before us, now 

 about to be quoted, cannot fail to touch the sympathy 

 of all who read them, let their feelings be ever so ob- 

 tuse or their imaginations ever so unrefined, but how 

 keenly will they find their way to the heart of one who 

 has lingered over the last dwelling of the — once cher- 

 ished — dead in a spot similar to Carrington's picture. 



" Touched by the sunlight of the evening hour, 

 The elm still rises near thy aged tov^er 

 Dear, pensive Harevv^ood, and in that rich ray 

 E'en thy old lichened battlements seem gay : — 

 Through the bowed windows streams the golden glow, 

 The beam is sleeping on the tombs below ; 

 While, with its million flowers, yon hedge-row fair 

 Girts with green zone thy lowly House of Prayer. 

 No breeze plays with the amber leafage now, 

 Still is the cypress — =still the ivy bough, 

 And but for that fleet bird that glances round 

 Thy spire, or darting o'er the sacred ground 

 Twitters for every joy, how strange and deep 

 The silence where the lost — the loved ones sleep ! 

 Beside — there is nor lay, nor voice, nor breath, 

 A happy, living thing, where all around is — Death. 



Dear, pensive Harewood ! let no wanton feet 



Profane the calmness of thy blessed retreat ; 



For here dove-eyed Affection seeks relief. 



And tastes, unmarked, the luxury of grief. 



How sweet to trace where on those hillocks green 



The sacred hand of Piety has been ! 



Rich hues are mingling with the pleasant grass. 



The western gales breathe fragrance when they pass ; 



The daisy lifts its unassuming head — 



The jasmine droops above the honoured dead — 



Around, the hawthorn flings its rich perfume — 



And roses — earliest roses bud and bloom ; — 



The woodbine clasps the monumental urn. 



And oft when Friendship hither hastes to mourn, 



