Ye who around this venerated bier
In pious anguish pour the tender tear,
Mourn not!--Tis Virtue’s triumph, Nature’s doom,
When honoured Age, slow bending to the tomb,
Earth’s vain enjoyments past, her transient woes,
Tastes the long sabbath of well-earned repose.
No blossom here, in vernal beauty shed,
No lover lies, warm from the nuptial bed;
Here rests _the full of days_,--each task fulfilled,
Each wish accomplished, and each passion stilled.
You raised her languid head, caught her last breath,
And cheered with looks of love the couch of death.
Yet mourn!--for sweet the filial sorrows flow,
When fond affection prompts the gush of woe;
No bitter drop, ’midst Nature’s kind relief,
Sheds gall into the fountain of your grief;
No tears you shed for patient love abused,
And counsel scorned, and kind restraints refused.
Not yours the pang the conscious bosom wrings,
When late remorse inflicts her fruitless stings.
Living you honoured her, you mourn for, dead;
Her God you worship, and her path you tread.
Your sighs shall aid reflection’s serious hour,
And cherished virtues bless the kindly shower:
On the loved theme your lips unblamed shall dwell;
Your lives, more eloquent, her worth shall tell.
--Long may that worth, fair Virtue’s heritage,
From race to race descend, from age to age!
Still purer with transmitted lustre shine
The treasured birthright of the spreading line!
For me, as o’er the frequent grave I bend,
And pensive down the vale of years descend;
Companions, Parents, Kindred called to mourn,
Dropt from my side, or from my bosom torn;
A boding voice, methinks, in Fancy’s ear
Speaks from the tomb, and cries “Thy friends are here!”
* * * * *
_Summer Evening’s Adventure in Wales._
Mr. Proger of Werndee, riding in the evening from Monmouth, with a
friend who was on a visit to him, heavy rain came on, and they turned
their horses a little out of the road towards Perthyer. “My cousin
Powell,” said Mr. Proger, “will, I am sure, be ready to give us a
night’s lodging.” At Perthyer all was still; the family were abed. Mr.
Proger shouted aloud under his cousin Powell’s chamber-window. Mr.
Powell soon heard him; and putting his head out, inquired, “In the name
of wonder what means all this noise? Who is there?” “It is only your
cousin Proger of Werndee, who is come to your hospitable door for
shelter from the inclemency of the weather; and hopes you will be so
kind as to give him, and a friend of his, a night’s lodging.” “What is
it you, cousin Proger? You, and your friend shall be instantly admitted;
but upon one condition, namely, that you will admit now, and never
hereafter dispute, that I am the head of your family.” “What was that
you said?” replied Mr. Proger. “Why, I say, that if you expect to pass
the night in my house, you must admit that I am the head of your
family.” “No, sir, I never will admit that--were it to rain swords and
daggers, I would ride through them this night to Werndee, sooner than
let down the consequence of my family by submitting to such an
ignominious condition. Come up, Bald! come up!” “Stop a moment, cousin
Proger; have you not often admitted, that the first earl of Pembroke
(of the name of Herbert) was a younger son of Perthyer; and will you set
yourself up above the earls of Pembroke?” “True it is I must give place
to the earl of Pembroke, because he is a peer of the realm; but still,
though a peer, he is of the youngest branch of my family, being
descended from the fourth son of Werndee, who was your ancestor, and
settled at Perthyer, whereas I am descended from the eldest son. Indeed,
my cousin Jones of Lanarth is of a branch of the family elder than you
are; and yet he never disputes my being the head of the family.” “Well,
cousin Proger, I have nothing more to say: good night to you.”--“Stop a
moment, Mr. Powell,” cried the stranger, “you see how it pours; do let
_me_ in at least; _I_ will not dispute with you about our families.”
“Pray, sir, what is your name, and where do you come from?” “My name is
so and so; and I come from such a county.” “A Saxon of course; it would
indeed be very curious, sir, were I to dispute with a Saxon about
family. No, sir, you must suffer for the obstinacy of your friend, so
good night to you both.”[172]
[168] Stow’s Survey, 1633, page 886.
[169] The Times.
[170] British Press.
[171] New Times.
[172] Williams’s Monmouth. App. 168.
~June 16.~
_Sts. Quirius_, or _Cyr_ and _Julitta_, Martyrs, A. D. 304. _St. John
Francis Regis_, A. D. 1640. _Sts. Ferreolus_, or _Fargeau_, and
_Ferrutius_, A. D. 211 or 212. _St. Aurelian_, Abp. A. D. 552.