320 



TELFORD'S POETICAL COMPOSITIONS. PART VITI. 



the summer of 1788 he says he is very much occupied, 

 having about ten different jobs on hand : roads, bridges, 

 streets, drainage- works, gaol, and infirmary. Yet he 

 had time to write verses, copies of which he forwarded 

 to his Eskdale correspondent, inviting his criticism. 

 Several of these were elegiac lines, somewhat exag- 

 gerated in their praise of the deceased, though doubt- 

 less sincere. One poem was in memory of George 

 Johnstone, Esq., a member of the Wester Hall family, 

 and another on the death of William Telford, an Esk- 

 dale farmer's son, an intimate friend and schoolfellow of 

 our engineer. 1 These, however, were but the votive 

 offerings of private friendship, persons more immediately 

 about him knowing nothing of his stolen pleasures in 

 versemaking. He continued to be shy of strangers, and 

 was very " nice," as he calls it, as to those whom he 

 admitted to his bosom. 



Two circumstances of considerable interest occurred 

 in the course of the same year (1788), which are worthy 

 of passing notice. The one was the fall of the church 

 of St. Chad's, at Shrewsbury ; the other was the dis- 

 covery of the ruins of the Roman city of Uriconium, 

 in the immediate neighbourhood. The church of St. 

 Chad's was about four centuries old, and stood greatly 





1 It would occupy unnecessary 

 space to cite these poems. The fol- 

 lowing, from the verses in memory of 

 William Telford, relates to schoolboy 

 days. After alluding to the lofty 

 Fell Hills, which formed part of the 

 sheep farm of his deceased friend's 

 father, the poet goes on to say : 



" There, 'mongst those rocks I'll form a 

 rural seat, 



And plant some ivy with its moss corn- 

 pleat ; 



I'll benches form of fragments from the 

 stone, 



Which, nicely pois'd, was by our hands 

 o'erthrown, 



A simple frolic, but now dear to me, 

 Because, my Telford, 'twas performed 



with thee. 



There, in the centre, sacred to his name, 

 I'll place an altar, where the lambent 



flame 

 Shall yearly rise, and eveiy youth shall 



join 

 The willing voice, and sing the enraptured 



line, 

 But we, my friend, will often steal 



away 



To this lone seat, and quiet pass the day ; 

 Here oft recall the pleasing scenes we 



knew 



In early youth, when every scene was ne\v, 

 When rural happiness our moments blest, 

 And joys untainted rose in every breast." 



