Great Bealings Churchyard
A SUMMER EVENING .
I T is not only while we look upon
A lovely landscape, that its beauties please;
In distant days, when we afar are gone
From such, in fancy's idle reveries,
Or moods of mind which memory loves to seize,
It comes in living beauty, fresh as when
We first beheld it: valley, hill, or trees
O'ershadowing unseen brooks; or outstretch'd fen
With cattle sprinkled o'er, exist, and charm again.
Such pictures silently and sweetly glide
Before my " mind's eye; " and I welcome them
The more, because their presence has supplied
A joy as pure and stainless as the gem
That morning finds on blossom, leaf, or stem
Of the fair garden's queen, the lovely Rose,
Ere breeze, or sunbeam, from her diadem,
Have stol'n one brilliant, and around she throws
Her perfumes o'er the spot that with her beauty glows.
Bear witness many a loved and lovely scene,
Which I no more may visit; are ye not
Thus still my own? Thy groves of shady green,
Sweet Gosfield! or thou, wild, romantic spot!
Where, by grey craggy cliff, and lonely grot,
The shallow Dove rolls o'er his rocky bed:
Ye still remain as fresh, and unforgot,
As if but yesterday mine eyes had fed
Upon your charms; and yet months, years, since then have sped.
Their silent course. And thus it ought to be,
Should I sojourn far hence in distant years,
Thou lovely dwelling of the dead! with thee:
For there is much about thee that endears
Thy peaceful landscape; much the heart reveres,
Much that it loves, and all it could desire
In Meditation's haunt, when hopes and fears
Have been too busy, and we would retire
E'en from ourselves awhile, yet of ourselves inquire.
Then art thou such a spot as man might choose
For still communion: all around is sweet,
And calm, and soothing; when the light breeze woos
The lofty limes that shadow thy retreat,
Whose interlacing branches, as they meet,
O'ertop, and almost hide the edifice
They beautify; no sound, except the bleat
Of innocent lambs, or notes which speak the bliss
Of happy birds unseen. What could a hermit miss?
" Light thickens; " and the moon advances; slow
Through fleecy clouds with majesty she wheels;
Yon tower's indented outline, tombstones low
And mossy grey, her silver light reveals:
Now quivering through the lime-tree foliage steals;
And now each humble, narrow, nameless bed,
Whose grassy hillock not in vain appeals
To eyes that pass by epitaphs unread,
Rise to the view. How still the dwelling of the dead!
I T is not only while we look upon
A lovely landscape, that its beauties please;
In distant days, when we afar are gone
From such, in fancy's idle reveries,
Or moods of mind which memory loves to seize,
It comes in living beauty, fresh as when
We first beheld it: valley, hill, or trees
O'ershadowing unseen brooks; or outstretch'd fen
With cattle sprinkled o'er, exist, and charm again.
Such pictures silently and sweetly glide
Before my " mind's eye; " and I welcome them
The more, because their presence has supplied
A joy as pure and stainless as the gem
That morning finds on blossom, leaf, or stem
Of the fair garden's queen, the lovely Rose,
Ere breeze, or sunbeam, from her diadem,
Have stol'n one brilliant, and around she throws
Her perfumes o'er the spot that with her beauty glows.
Bear witness many a loved and lovely scene,
Which I no more may visit; are ye not
Thus still my own? Thy groves of shady green,
Sweet Gosfield! or thou, wild, romantic spot!
Where, by grey craggy cliff, and lonely grot,
The shallow Dove rolls o'er his rocky bed:
Ye still remain as fresh, and unforgot,
As if but yesterday mine eyes had fed
Upon your charms; and yet months, years, since then have sped.
Their silent course. And thus it ought to be,
Should I sojourn far hence in distant years,
Thou lovely dwelling of the dead! with thee:
For there is much about thee that endears
Thy peaceful landscape; much the heart reveres,
Much that it loves, and all it could desire
In Meditation's haunt, when hopes and fears
Have been too busy, and we would retire
E'en from ourselves awhile, yet of ourselves inquire.
Then art thou such a spot as man might choose
For still communion: all around is sweet,
And calm, and soothing; when the light breeze woos
The lofty limes that shadow thy retreat,
Whose interlacing branches, as they meet,
O'ertop, and almost hide the edifice
They beautify; no sound, except the bleat
Of innocent lambs, or notes which speak the bliss
Of happy birds unseen. What could a hermit miss?
" Light thickens; " and the moon advances; slow
Through fleecy clouds with majesty she wheels;
Yon tower's indented outline, tombstones low
And mossy grey, her silver light reveals:
Now quivering through the lime-tree foliage steals;
And now each humble, narrow, nameless bed,
Whose grassy hillock not in vain appeals
To eyes that pass by epitaphs unread,
Rise to the view. How still the dwelling of the dead!
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