Thy gentleness, thy truth, thy purity;
Are all, Fitzwilliam! that remain of thee.
The steward of the trampled poor is gone!
The prince of charity hath bow'd to fate!
The godlike friend of him that wanteth one,
Finds good deeds done on earth his best estate.
How long for thee God bade his angel wait!
O reverend brow! thou conquerest Envy's frown,
And dead, half-humanizest Faction's hate;
As when a poet of time-tried renown
Casts o'er the world he left the light of suns gone down.
SCENES of my thoughtless youth! here are ye all;
Dalton and Dalton school! and Dalton Deign!
But changed ye are! or I am. Mean and small
Ye seem, and humbled. Sunk into the plain,
The hill is dwarf'd with age. Its coronal
The glen hath lost, its ferny plumes, and, more
Than these, its freedom! Thryberg's verdant wall
Is here, and here the oak I knew of yore;
But who, to me, their grandeur can restore?
My heart hath made them bankrupt. Where they
Stand Wentworth's halls; but not, as heretofore,
Portall'd for gods. O far-known Silverwood!
O cavern'd Ravensfield! Don, flowing o'er
A narrower bed, bathes now a tamer shore.
PROSPECT FROM THRYBERG.
THOU Only, Wincobank, reign'st undespoiled,
King of the valley of my youth and prime,
Through which the river, like a snake uncoil'd,
Wanders, though tamed, a match for conquering
Behind thee mountains, solemn and sublime,
Take from the stooping skies their purply gold;
And could I in that brightness steep my rhyme,
And steal yon glow of green and crimson, roll'd
Far o'er the realms of evening's western clime,
A tale of Nature's splendour should be told.
Which Byron might transcribe for Scott, and deem
That earth, like heav'n, hath scenes which grow not
old;
O let me dip my pencil in thy beam,
Thou setting sun! ere death cut short this fever'd
WORLD of my boyhood! art thou what thou wast? Seen through the melancholy mist of years,
Thy woods a pale diminish'd shadow cast
O'er thoughts grown grey, and feelings dimm'd with
Our spirits, biggen'd by their griefs and fears,
Sadden and dwindle, with their backward view,
All they behold. Chang'd world! thy face appears
Poor as the toy that pleas'd when life was new ;
And mournful as th' inscription, trite and true,
That lingers on our little sister's grave.
Roch Abbey! Canklow! Aldwark! if I crave,
Now, a boy's joy, from some lone flower's deep blue,
Will your loved flowers assume a pensive hue?
Or smile as once they smiled, still growing where they
PALE ruin! no-they come no more, the days
When thought was like a bee within a rose,
Happier and busier than the beam that plays
On this thy stream. The stream sings, as it flows,
A song of valleys, where the hawthorn blows;
And wandering through a world of flowery-ways,
Even as of old; but never will it bring
Back to my heart my guileless love of praise.--
The blossomy hours of life's all-beauteous spring,
When joy and hope were ever on the wing,
Chasing the redstart for its flamy glare,
The corn craik for its secret.
A healing balsam from the dregs of care,
And turn to auburn curls the soul's grey hair?
Yet, Abbey pleased, I greet thee once again;
Shake hands, old friend, for I in soul am old.
But storms assault thy golden front in vain ;
Unchanged thou seem'st, though times are changed
and cold;
While to thy side I bring a man of pain,
With youthful cheeks in furrows deep and wide,
Plough'd up by Fortune's volley'd hail and rain;
To truth a martyr, hated and belied;
Of freedom's cause a champion true and tried.
O take him to thy heart! for Pemberton
Loves thee and thine, because your might hath died— Because thy friends are dead, thy glories goneBecause, like him, thy batter'd walls abide
A thousand wrongs, and smile at power and pride.
O bid him welcome then! and let his
Look on thy beauty, until blissful tears
Flood the deep channels, worn by agonies,
Which leave a wreck more sad than that of years.
Yes; let him see the evening-purpled skies,
Above thy glowing lake bend down to thee;
And the love-list'ning vesper-star arise,
Slowly, o'er silent earth's tranquillity;
And all thy ruins weeping silently;
Then, be his weakness pitied and forgiv'n,
If when the moon illumes her deep blue sea,
His soul could wish to dream of thee in heav'n,
And, with a friend his bosom'd mate to be,
Wander through endless years, by silver'd arch and
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