And to a favourite resting-place invite,For coolness grateful and a sober light;Here may some Painter sit in future days,Some future Poet meditate his lays;Not mindless of that distant age renownedWhen Inspiration hovered o'er this ground,The haunt of Him who sang how spear and shieldIn civil conflict met on Bosworth Field;And of that famous Youth, full soon removedFrom earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self approved,Fletcher's Associate, Jonson's Friend beloved.In a Garden of the sameOft is the Medal faithful to its trustWhen Temples, Columns, Towers are laid in dust;And 'tis a common ordinance of fateThat things obscure and small outlive the great:Hence, when yon Mansion and the flowery trimOf this fair Garden, and its alleys dim,And all its stately trees, are passed away,This little Niche, unconscious of decay,Perchance may still survive.-And be it knownThat it was scooped within the living stone, —Not by the sluggish and ungrateful painsOf labourer plodding for his daily gains;But by an industry that wrought in love;With help from female hands, that proudly stroveTo aid the work, what time these walks and bowersWere shaped to cheer dark winter's lonely hours.Inscription for a Seat in the Groves of ColeortonBeneath yon eastern Ridge, the craggy Bound,Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest groundStand yet, but, Stranger! hidden from thy view,The ivied Ruins of forlorn GRACE DIEU;Erst a religious House, that day and nightWith hymns resounded, and the chaunted rite:And when those rites had ceased, the Spot gave birthTo honourable Men of various worth:There, on the margin of a Streamlet wild,Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager Child;There, under shadow of the neighbouring rocks,Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their flocks;Unconscious prelude to heroic themes,Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreamsOf slighted love, and scorn, and jealous rage,With which his genius shook the buskined Stage.Communities are lost, and Empires die, —And things of holy use unhallowed lie;They perish;-but the Intellect can raise,From airy words alone, a Pile that ne'er decays.
Я летним облачком блуждалВ холмах и долах, одинок,И на прибрежье увидалЗлатых нарциссов табунок.В тени деревьев, над волнойКачал их ветер озорной.То звездный рой, устав мерцать,Со Млечного Пути сошел,И узкий берег озерцаКаймой сияющей обвел;Несметно их — и, как живой,Кивал мне каждый головой.Играет бликами волна,Но ярче золото земли;Иная радость не нужна —Возьми, прими и раздели;Дарованному благу рад,Смотрю, не отрывая взгляд.Когда я в мысли ухожу,Когда блаженствую в тиши —Я взором внутренним гляжуНа златоцвет моей души;И сердцем я принять готовКруженье золотых цветов.
