THE TWO GRAVES.
In yonder cowslip’s sprinkled mead
A church’s tapering spire doth rise,
As if it were directing us
Unto a fairer paradise;
Within the yard, so fair and green,
Full many a grave is to be seen.
Often upon a summer’s eve
The church-yard’s smooth, green sward I’ve trod!
Reading the rugged epitaphs
Of those who lie beneath the sod;
But in one spot two graves were seen,
Which always stopp’d my wandering.
Upon one stone’s expansive front
Was writ, in language stiff and cold,
That he, who lay beneath that slab,
Had died when he was very old;
And at its close a simple line
Said, that his age was ninety-nine.
Another small and polish’d stone
Beside the former did appear;
It said, that that grave’s occupant
Had died when in his third year:
How eloquent the polish’d praise
Lavish’d on that child’s winning ways!
The old man lay beneath the stone,
Where nought in praise of him was told;
It only said, that there he lay,
And that he died when he was old:
It did not chronicle his years,
His joys and sorrows—hopes and fears.
Ninety-nine years of varying life
On gliding pinions by had fled;
(Oh what long years of toil and strife!)
Ere he was number’d with the dead;
But yet no line was left to tell
How he had liv’d, or how he fell!
Had he no wife,—no child,—no friend?
To cheer him as he pass’d away;
No one who would his name commend,
And wail as he was laid in clay?
Of this the record nought supplied,—
It only said he liv’d and died!
How must his soul have been oppress’d,
As intimates dropp’d from his side!
And he, almost unknown, was left
Alone,—upon this desert wide!
Wife—children—friends—all, all were gone,
And he left in the world alone!
His youthful friends had long grown old,
And then were number’d with the dead;
His step had totter’d, sight grown dim,
And ev’ry source of pleasure fled;
By nature’s law such must have been,
Th’ effect of the long years he’d seen!
But then the record nought supplied,
How he had spent this length’ned life;
Whether in peace and quietness,
Or had he worried been with strife:
Perhaps the muse to him had given
Visions of glory, fire from Heaven!
All is conjecture! He was laid
Beneath the cold, unfeeling clay,
His fame—if he had sigh’d for fame—
Had from remembrance pass’d away.
Hope, joy, fear, sorrow, all were fled,
And he lay number’d with the dead!
Oh! cold and cheerless is the thought,
That I shall be as he is now;
My very name remember’d not,
And fame’s wreath wither’d on my brow:
Of me no record be supplied,
But that I liv’d, and that I died!
Such is the tone of sorrowing thought
That through my heart has often past,
As, on a summer’s brightning eve,
A look upon those graves I’ve cast,
Where youth and age together lie,
Emblems of frail mortality!
O. N. Y.
THE WHITE LADY.
A romantic and true Anecdote.
At Nottingham, a year or two ago, Sophia Hyatt, in consequence of extreme deafness, was accidentally run over by a carrier’s cart, at the entrance of the Maypole inn-yard, and unfortunately killed. She had arrived that morning in a gig from Newstead Papplewick, or somewhere in that neighbourhood, and had been, for the three or four preceding years, a lodger in one of the farm-houses belonging to colonel Wildman, at Newstead Abbey. No one knew exactly from whence she came, nor what were her connections. Her days were passed in rambling about the gardens and grounds of the abbey, to which, from the kindness of colonel Wildman, she had free access. Her dress was invariably the same; and she was distinguished by the servants at Newstead, as the “white lady.” She had ingratiated herself with the Newfoundland dog which came from Greece with the body of lord Byron, by regularly feeding him; and on the evening before the fatal accident, she was seen, on quitting the gardens, to cut off a small lock of the dog’s hair, which she carefully placed in her handkerchief. On that evening also, she delivered to Mrs. Wildman a sealed packet, with a request that it might not be opened till the following morning. The contents of the packet were no less interesting than surprising; they consisted of various poems in manuscript, written during her solitary walks, and all of them referring to the bard to whom Newstead once belonged. A letter, addressed to Mrs. Wildman, was enclosed with the poetry, written with much elegance of language and native feeling; it described her friendless situation, alluded to her pecuniary difficulties, thanked the family for their kind attention towards her, and stated the necessity she was under of removing for a short period from Newstead. It appeared from her statement, that she had connections in America, that her brother had died there, leaving a widow and family, and she requested colonel Wildman’s assistance to arrange certain matters, in which she was materially concerned. She concluded with declaring, that her only happiness in this world consisted in the privilege of being allowed to wander through the domain of Newstead, and to trace the various spots which had been consecrated by the genius of lord Byron. A most kind and compassionate note was conveyed to her immediately after the perusal of this letter, urging her, either to give up her journey, or to return to Newstead as quickly as possible. With the melancholy sequel the reader is acquainted. Colonel Wildman took upon himself the care of her interment, and she was buried in the church-yard of Hucknall, as near as possible to the vault which contains the body of lord Byron. The last poem she composed was the following: it seems to have been dictated by a melancholy foreboding of her fate.
My last Walk in the Gardens of Newstead Abbey.
Here no longer shall I wander
Lone, but in communion high,
Kindred spirits greet me—yonder
Glows the form that’s ever nigh.
Wrapt in blissful contemplation,
From that hill no more I gaze
On scenes as fair as when creation
Rose—the theme of seraphs’ lays.
And thou, fair sylph, that round its basis
Driv’st thy car, with milk-white steed;
Oft I watch’d its gentle paces—
Mark’d its track with curious heed.
Why? oh! why thus interesting,
Are forms and scenes to me unknown?
Oh you, the Muses’ power confessing,
Define the charm your bosoms own.
Why love to gaze or playful fountain,
Or lake, that bore him on its breast?
Lonely to wander o’er each mountain,
Grove, or plain, his feet have press’d?
It is because the Muses hover,
And all around, a halo shed;
And still must every fond adorer
Worship the shrine, the idol fled.
But ’tis past; and now for ever
Fancy’s vision’s bliss is o’er;
But to forget thee, Newstead—never,
Though I shall haunt thy shades no more.[207]
[207] Nottingham Review.