ELEGIAC MUSINGS
IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON HALL, THE SEAT OF THE LATE SIR G. H. BEAUMONT, BART.
ELEGIAC MUSINGS
WITH copious eulogy in prose or rhyme Graven on the tomb we struggle against Time, Alas, how feebly! but our feelings rise And still we struggle when a good man dies: Such offering BEAUMONT dreaded and forbade, A spirit meek in self-abasement clad. Yet ‘here’ at least–though few have numbered days That shunned so modestly the light of praise– His graceful manners, and the temperate ray Of that arch fancy which would round him play, 10 Brightening a converse never known to swerve From courtesy and delicate reserve; That sense, the bland philosophy of life, Which checked discussion ere it warmed to strife– Those rare accomplishments, and varied powers, Might have their record among sylvan bowers. Oh, fled for ever! vanished like a blast That shook the leaves in myriads as it passed;– Gone from this world of earth, air, sea, and sky, From all its spirit-moving imagery, 20 Intensely studied with a painter’s eye, A poet’s heart; and, for congenial view, Portrayed with happiest pencil, not untrue To common recognitions while the line Flowed in a course of sympathy divine;– Oh! severed, too abruptly, from delights That all the seasons shared with equal rights;– Rapt in the grace of undismantled age, From soul-felt music, and the treasured page Lit by that evening lamp which loved to shed 30 Its mellow lustre round thy honoured head; While Friends beheld thee give with eye, voice, mien, More than theatric force to Shakspeare’s scene;– If thou hast heard me–if thy Spirit know Aught of these bowers and whence their pleasures flow; If things in our remembrance held so dear, And thoughts and projects fondly cherished here, To thy exalted nature only seem Time’s vanities, light fragments of earth’s dream– Rebuke us not!–The mandate is obeyed 40 That said, “Let praise be mute where I am laid;” The holier deprecation, given in trust To the cold marble, waits upon thy dust; Yet have we found how slowly genuine grief From ‘silent’ admiration wins relief. Too long abashed thy Name is like a rose That doth “within itself its sweetness close;” A drooping daisy changed into a cup In which her bright-eyed beauty is shut up. Within these groves, where still are flitting by 50 Shades of the Past, oft noticed with a sigh, Shall stand a votive Tablet, haply free, When towers and temples fall, to speak of Thee! If sculptured emblems of our mortal doom Recall not there the wisdom of the Tomb, Green ivy risen from out the cheerful earth, Will fringe the lettered stone; and herbs spring forth, Whose fragrance, by soft dews and rain unbound, Shall penetrate the heart without a wound; While truth and love their purposes fulfil, 60 Commemorating genius, talent, skill, That could not lie concealed where Thou wert known; Thy virtues ‘He’ must judge, and He alone, The God upon whose mercy they are thrown. Nov. 1830.