To The Lady Fleming

On Seeing The Foundation Preparing For The Erection Of Rydal Chapel, Westmoreland. I Blest is this Isle, our native Land; Where battlement and moated gate Are objects only for the hand Of hoary Time to decorate; Where shady hamlet, town that breathes Its busy smoke in social wreaths, No rampart's stern defense require, Nought but the heaven-directed spire, And steeple tower (with pealing bells Far-heard) our only citadels. II O Lady! from a noble line Of chieftains sprung, who stoutly bore The spear, yet gave to works divine A bounteous help in days of yore, (As records mouldering in the Dell Of Nightshade haply yet may tell;) Thee kindred aspirations moved To build, within a vale beloved, For Him upon whose high behests All peace depends, all safety rests. III How fondly will the woods embrace This daughter of thy pious care, Lifting her front with modest grace To make a fair recess more fair; And to exalt the passing hour; Or soothe it with a healing power Drawn from the Sacrifice fulfilled, Before this rugged soil was tilled, Or human habitation rose To interrupt the deep repose! IV Well may the villagers rejoice! Nor heat, nor cold, nor weary ways, Will be a hindrance to the voice That would unite in prayer and praise; More duly shall wild wandering Youth Receive the curb of sacred truth, Shall tottering Age, bent earthward, hear The Promise, with uplifted ear; And all shall welcome the new ray Imparted to their sabbath-day. V Nor deem the Poet's hope misplaced, His fancy cheated, that can see A shade upon the future cast, Of time's pathetic sanctity; Can hear the monitory clock Sound o'er the lake with gentle shock At evening, when the ground beneath Is ruffled o'er with cells of death; Where happy generations lie, Here tutored for eternity. VI Lives there a man whose sole delights Are trivial pomp and city noise, Hardening a heart that loathes or slights What every natural heart enjoys? Who never caught a noon-tide dream From murmur of a running stream; Could strip, for aught the prospect yields To him, their verdure from the fields; And take the radiance from the clouds In which the sun his setting shrouds. VII A soul so pitiably forlorn, If such do on this earth abide, May season apathy with scorn, May turn indifference to pride; And still be not unblest compared With him who grovels, self-debarred From all that lies within the scope Of holy faith and Christian hope; Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost. VIII Alas! that such perverted zeal Should spread on Britain's favoured ground! That public order, private weal, Should e'er have felt or feared a wound From champions of the desperate law Which from their own blind hearts they draw; Who tempt their reason to deny God, whom their passions dare defy, And boast that they alone are free Who reach this dire extremity! IX But turn we from these "bold bad" men; The way, mild Lady! that hath led Down to their dark opprobrious den," Is all too rough for Thee to tread. Softly as morning vapours glide Down Rydal-cove from Fairfield's side, Should move the tenor of 'his' song Who means to charity no wrong; Whose offering gladly would accord With this day's work, in thought and word. X Heaven prosper it! may peace, and love, And hope, and consolation, fall, Through its meek influence, from above, And penetrate the hearts of all; All who, around the hallowed Fane, Shall sojourn in this fair domain; Grateful to Thee, while service pure, And ancient ordinance, shall endure, For opportunity bestowed To kneel together, and adore their God!