Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1832

Front matter

Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher’s Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1832 compiled by Peter J. Bolton

INTRODUCTION.

Though a Preface be the first page seen in a volume, it is always the last page written. By that time, the golden age of hope has darkened into the iron age of fear. The ideas that seemed at first so delightful, are grown common, by passing through the familiarizing process of writing, printing, and correcting. A proof-sheet is a terrible reality; and you look upon your work with much the same feeling as people look upon the prospect to which they are accustomed—they are much more alive to its faults than its beauties.

The Princess Victoria

THE PRINCESS ALEXANDRINA-VICTORIA. Artist: Anthony Stewart - Engraved by: Thomas Woolnoth

THE PRINCESS VICTORIA.

And art thou a Princess?—in sooth, we may well Go back to the days of the sign and the spell, When a young queen sat on an ivory throne In a shining hall, whose windows shone With colours its crystals caught from the sky, Or the roof which a thousand rubies dye; Where the summer garden was spread around. With the date and the palm and the cedar crowned; Where fountains played with the rainbow showers, Touched with the hues of their comrade flowers; Where the tulip and rose grew side by side, One like a queen, and one like a bride; One with its own imperial flush, The other reddening with love’s sweet blush; When silver stuffs for her step were unrolled, And the citron was served on a plate of gold; When perfumes arose from pearl caskets filled With odours from all sweet things distilled; When a fairy guarded the throne from ill, And she knew no rule but her own glad will: Those were the days for a youthful queen, And such, fair Princess, thou should’st have been.

But now thou wilt fill a weary throne, What with rights of the people, and rights of thy own: An ear-trumpet now thy sceptre should be, Eternal debate is the future for thee. Lord Brougham will make a six-hours' oration, On the progress of knowledge, the mind of the nation; Lord Grey one yet longer, to state that his place Is perhaps less dear to himself than his race; O’Connell will tell Ireland’s griefs and her wrongs, In speech, the mac-adamized prose of Moore's songs: Good patience! how weary the young queen will be Of "the flower of the earth, and the gem of the sea!" Mr. Hume, with his watchwords 'Retrenchment and Waste', Will insist that your wardrobe in his care be placed; The silk he will save! the blonde he will spare— I wish he may leave Your Grace any to wear, That feminine fancy, a will of your own, Is a luxury wholly denied to a throne; And this is your future—how soon time will trace A change and a sign on that fair and young face! Methinks the best wish to be offered thee now, Is—God keep the crown long from that innocent brow!

Pile of Fouldrey Castle

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PILE OF FOULDREY CASTLE. Artist: G. Pickering - Engraved by: Fenner & Co.

PILE OF FOULDREY CASTLE,

LANCASHIRE.

No memory of its former state, No record of its fame, A broken wall, a fallen tower, A half-forgotten name; A gloomy shadow on the wave, And silence deep as in the grave.

And yet it had its glorious days, It had its hour of pride, When o’er the drawbridge gallantly Its warriors wont to ride; When silver shield, and plume of snow, Were mirror'd in the wave below.

In sooth, that was a stirring time Of chivalry and song. When the bright spear was put in rest, And the right arm was strong; When minstrel meed, and ladye’s glove, Were high rewards of war and love.

Oh! vain delusion, cruel days Were then upon the land; A battlement on every wall, A sword in every hand; And rose the cry, and poured the flood, Of human wrong, and human blood.

Then many a stately castle stood O’er dungeons dark and deep; Then many a noble robber wont The king’s highway to keep. Ah! these were not the times to praise, Thank God, we know more peaceful days.

Oh! better that the ivy wreath Should clothe the mouldering tower, Than it should be a place of strength, For passion and for power. All glory to those stern old times, But leave them to their minstrel rhymes.

Carrick-a-Rede, Ireland

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CARRICK-A-REDE, IRELAND. CO. OF ANTRIM. Artist: T. M. Baynes - Engraved by: J. Davies

CARRICK-A-REDE, IRELAND

He dwelt amid the gloomy rocks, A solitary man; Around his home on every side, The deep salt waters ran. The distant ships sailed far away, And o’er the moaning wave The sea-birds swept, with pale white wings, As phantoms haunt the grave: ’Twas dreary on an autumn night, To hear the tempest sweep, When gallant ships were perishing Alone amid the deep.

He was a stranger to that shore, A stranger he remained, For to his heart, or hearth, or board, None ever welcome gained. Great must have been the misery Of guilt upon his mind, That thus could sever all the ties Between him and his kind. His step was slow, his words were few, His brow was worn and wan; He dwelt among those gloomy rocks, A solitary man.

The romantic anecdote, to which the above lines have reference, is a true one.—A manuscript journal of a Tour through the Western Islands of Scotland, and along the Northern Coast of Ireland, in 1746, contains the following passage:—

"Carrick-a-Reid is a great rock, cut off from the shore by a chasm of fearful depth, through which the sea, when vexed by angry winds, boileth with great fury. It is resorted to at this season of the year by fishers, for the taking of salmon, who sling themselves across the perilous gulf by means of a stout rope, or withe, as the name Carrick-a-Reid imports. I was told, that, all through the inclemency of last winter, there dwelled here a solitary stranger, of noble mien, in an unseemly hut, made by his own hands. The people, in speaking of the stranger, called him, from his aspect, 'The Man of Sorrow;' and ’tis not unlikely, poor gentleman, he was one of the rebels who fled out of Scotland."

In the second volume of "Wakefield's Ireland," a particular account of Carrick-a-Rede, its fishery, and "very extraordinary flying bridge," may be found.

The Palace of the Seven Stories

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PALACE OF THE SEVEN STORIES, - BEEJAPORE. Artist: W. Turner - Engraved by: W. Finden

THE PALACE OF THE SEVEN STORIES.

The past it is a fearful thing, With an eagle’s sweep, and a tiger's spring. Here was a palace, the dwelling of kings, Now to its turrets the creeping plant clings.

The past it is a mighty grave; What remains for the present to save? A few sad thoughts, a few brief words, These are the richest of memory's hoards.

Where temples stood, the tamarinds grow; Broken columns are mouldering below. No steps are heard in the ruined hall. Such is man’s pride, and such is its fall.

The Seven-storied Palace is a ruin of great beauty. Captain Sykes states, "that it must have been a splendid building; the remains of carved work and gilding indicate that no expense or art was spared." Bejapore is one of the most picturesque cities in Hindostan. Immense tamarind trees spread their rich foliage over the magnificent remains of mosques and mausoleums, or partially cover some finely broken palace or beautiful tank. Tradition records a characteristic anecdote of the building of the palace. "The inhabitants of a small village called Kejgunally, complaining of the injury they were exposed to, from the works in progress, the king, with a whimsical affectation of justice, surrounded them with a high wall. The village, in the course of time, disappeared; but the wall remains, and is pointed out as a proof of the severe justice of the king, who chose rather to comply with the literal wish of the inhabitants, of being protected from injury, than remove them by force to a more desirable spot."

The Deaf Schoolmaster

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THE DEAF SCHOOLMASTER. Artist: Henry Meyer - Engraved by: H. Meyer

THE DEAF SCHOOLMASTER.

He cannot hear the skylark sing, The music of the wild bee’s wing; The murmur of the plaining bough; A gentle whisper fairy low; The noise of falling waters near— All these have left his mournful ear. A sad, sad silence, whose worst power Is felt in others’ gladdest hour. But, ah, to what can it not move Th' unconquerable strength of love! See how he bends above the page, For him—the child of his old age. The ear is deaf, the eye is dim, Yet anxious and alive for him. How deep and tender is the debt, Whose seal on that young heart is set; Little, perchance, may be the aid, Not so the fondness which essayed To help amid this learned coil, And smooth the youthful student's toil. Mid all the sorrow and the crime, Man's destiny from earliest time; Mid all that can debase, degrade, How beautiful this earth is made, By pure affection, deep and dear, Affection like that pictured here!

Storrs, Windermere Lake

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STORRS, WINDERMERE LAKE. Artist: Harwood - Engraved by: Tombleson

STORRS, WINDERMERE LAKE.

I would I had a charmed bark, To sail that lovely lake; Nor should another prow but mine Its silver silence wake. No oar should cleave its sunny tide; But I would float along, As if the breath that filled my sail Were but a murmured song.

Then I would think all pleasant thoughts; Live early youth anew, When hope took tones of prophecy, And tones of music too; And coloured life with its own hues— The heart’s true Claude Lorraine— The rich, the warm, the beautiful, I’d live them once again.

Kind faces flit before my eyes, Sweet voices fill my ear, And friends I long have ceased to love, I’ll still think loved, and here. With such fair phantasies to fill, Sweet Lake, thy summer air; If thy banks were not Paradise, Yet should I dream they were.

The calm and picturesque scenery of the Lake of Windermere might awake a thousand far more romantic visions than that of the return of the first warm feelings of youth. Shut out as it were from the world, and enshrined in delicious seclusion; here might the weary heart dream itself away, and find the freshness of the spring-time of the spirit return upon it. Here, at the mansion of Colonel John Bolton—a circumstance which gives interest to the plate—did the late Mr. Canning retire from the whirl of public affairs; and, to use the words of Fisher’s Illustrations of Lancashire, "here was restored, in some measure, the elasticity of a mind, whose lofty energies were ultimately, and for our country we may say prematurely, exhausted in the preservation of a nation's welfare."

The Pirate’s Song off the Tiger Island

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TIGER ISLAND. Artist: C. Stanfield - Engraved by: Edward Goodall

THE PIRATE'S SONG OFF THE TIGER ISLAND

Our prize is won, our chase is o’er, Turn the vessel to the shore. Place yon rock, so that the wind, Like a prisoner, howl behind; Which is darkest—wave, or cloud? One a grave, and one a shroud. Though the thunder rend the sky, Though the echoing wind reply, Though the lightning sweep the seas, We are used to nights like these; Let it foam, the angry main— Washing out the blood-red stain, Which the evening conflict threw O’er the waters bright and blue. Though above the thunder break, 'Twill but drown our victims’ shriek; And the lightning’s serpent coil, Will but glimmer o’er our spoil: Maidens, in whose orient eyes, More than morning’s sunshine lies— Honour to the wind and waves, While they yield us such sweet slaves— Shawls the richest of Cashmere, Pearls from Oman’s bay are here; And Golconda’s royal mine Sends her diamonds here to shine; Let the stars at midnight glow, We have brighter stars below; Leave the planet of the pole Just to guide us to our goal, We’d not change for heaven's own stars, Yon glad heap of red dinars; *

See the crimson silks unfold, And the slender chains of gold, Like the glittering curls descending, When the bright one’s head is bending; And the radiant locks fall over, Or her mirror or her lover, On which face she likes to dwell, ’Twere a prophet’s task to tell; All those crystal flasks enclose Sighs of the imprisoned rose; And those porcelain urns are filled By sweet Indian wood distilled; And behold those fragrant piles, Spice from the Manilla isles, Nutmegs, cloves, and cinnamon— But our glorious task is done. Little dreamed the merchant’s care Who his precious freight should share— Fill the wine-cup to the brim, Our first health shall be to him.

The Upper Lake of Killarney, Ireland

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THE UPPER LAKE OF KILLARNEY, IRELAND. TAKEN NEAR THE TUNNEL, ON THE KENMARE ROAD, CARRAN TUAL IN THE DISTANCE Artist: W. H. Bartlett - Engraved by: LePetit

THE UPPER LAKE OF KILLARNEY.

Why doth the maiden turn away From voice so sweet, and words so dear? Why doth the maiden turn away When love and flattery woo her ear? And rarely that enchanted twain Whisper in woman's ear in vain. Why doth the maiden leave the hall? No face is fair as hers is fair, No step has such a fairy fall, No azure eyes like hers are there.

The maiden seeks her lonely bower, Although her father's guests are met; She knows it is the midnight hour, She knows the first pale star is set, And now the silver moon-beams wake The spirits of the haunted Lake. The waves take rainbow hues, and now The shining train are gliding by, Their chieftain lifts his glorious brow, The maiden meets his lingering eye.

The glittering shapes melt into night; Another look, their chief is gone, And chill and gray comes morning's light, And clear and cold the Lake flows on; Close, close the casement, not for sleep, Over such visions eyes but weep. How many share such destiny, How many, lured by fancy's beam, Ask the impossible to be, And pine, the victims of a dream.

The romantic story of Kate Kearney, "who dwelt by the shore of Killarney," is too well known to need repetition. She is said to have cherished a visionary passion for O'Donoghue, an enchanted chieftain who haunts those beautiful Lakes, and to have died the victim "of folly, of love, and of madness."

Hurdwar, a Place of Hindoo Pilgrimage

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HURDWAR, A PLACE OF HINDOO PILGRIMAGE. Artist: S. Prout - Engraved by: W. J. Cook

HURDWAR,*

A PLACE OF HINDOO PILGRIMAGE.

I love the feeling which, in former days, Sent men to pray amid the desert's gloom, Where hermits left a cell, or saints a tomb; Good springs alike from penitence and praise, From aught that can the mortal spirit raise: And though the faith be false, the hope be vain, That brought the Hindoo to his idol fane; Yet one all-sacred truth his deed conveys— How still the heart doth its Creator own, Mid strange idolatry and savage rite, A consciousness of power eternal shown, How man relies on some superior might. The soul mid darkness feels its birth divine, And owns the true God in the false god's shrine.

Hurdwar, or Haridwar, means the gate of Vishnoo, the Prinsir. The Hindoos perform this pilgrimage, to bathe in a particular spot of the Ganges,† at the time when the sun enters the sign Aries. A fair is then held, which, thanks to the precautions taken by the British government, has, of late years, gone off without bloodshed. "At the annual fairs, it is supposed, from 200,000 to 300,000 persons are collected. Once in twelve years, when particular ceremonies are performed, the number of those present has been computed at one million."—Hamilton's Gazetteer.

† "Parvati, the bride of Siva, ventured one day to cover his eyes with her hands. Thereupon all the functions of life were suspended—time stood—nay, the drops poured from Siva's brow, to think of the awful consequences arising from his almighty eye relaxing from its eternal watchfulness. From these drops, the Ganges had its divine origin; hence the veneration of the Hindoos for the sacred river."—Asiatic Researches.

The Black-Rock Fort and Lighthouse

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THE BLACK ROCK FORT AND LIGHTHOUSE, LIVERPOOL. Artist: S. Austin - Engraved by: Robt. Wallis

THE BLACK-ROCK FORT AND LIGHTHOUSE.

Thank God, thank God—the beacon light Is breaking beautiful through night; Urge the boat through the surge, once more We are beside our English shore.

Oh! weary nights and days to me Have set and risen upon the sea; I never wish to sail again O'er the interminable main.

‘Tis wonderful to see the sky Hang out her guiding stars on high, And mirror'd in the ocean fair, As if another heaven were there.

And glorious is it thus to go, The white foam dashing from the prow, As our ship through the waves hath gone, Mistress of all she looked upon.

But weary is it for the eye To only meet the sea and sky; And weary is it for the ear But only winds and waves to hear.

I pined for leaves, I pined for flowers, For meadows green, with driving showers; For all the sights and sounds of life, Wherewith the air of earth is rife.

Farewell, wild waves, again I come To England and my English home; Thank God, thank God, the beacon light Is breaking beautiful through night.

The Taj-Mahal, at Agra

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TÂJ MAHAL, AGRA. Artist: S. Prout - Engraved by: Robt. Wallis

THE TAJ-MAHAL, AT AGRA.

THE TOMB OF MUNTAZA ZEMANI.

"Aye, build it on these banks," the monarch said, "That when the autumn winds have swept the sea, They may come hither with their falling rains, A voice of mighty weeping o'er her grave."

They brought the purest marble that the earth E'er treasured from the sun, and ivory Was never yet more delicately carved: Then cupolas were raised, and minarets, And flights of lofty steps, and one vast dome Rose till it met the clouds: richly inlaid With red and black, this palace of the dead Exhausted wealth and skill. Around its walls The cypresses like funeral columns stood, And lamps perpetual burnt beside the tomb. And yet the emperor felt it was in vain, A desolate magnificence that mocked The lost one, and the loved, which it enshrined.

Muntaza Zemani was the wife of Shah Jehan, emperor of Hindostan. The magnificent mausoleum, which it was some consolation to erect, was one of the many human vanities that mock their founders. Shah Jehan past from a prison to his gorgeous tomb. For the last eight years of his life he was confined in the fort of Agra, by his son, Aurungzebe. An Italian artist, who saw this most exquisite specimen of Mahommedan architecture, regretted there was not a glass-case to cover it. The pure whiteness of the marble is powerfully contrasted to the dark green of its avenue of cypresses.

The Volcano of Ki-Rau-E-A

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THE VOLCANO OF KI-RAU-E-A, IN HAWAII. Artist: W. Ellis, after F. Howard - Engraved by: W. Finden

THE VOLCANO OF KI-RAU-E-A.

EXTRACT FROM STEWART’S JOURNAL OF A RESIDENCE IN THE SANDWICH ISLANDS.

"Standing at an elevation of one thousand five hundred feet, we looked into a black and horrid gulf, not less than eight miles in circumference, so directly beneath us, that, in appearance, we might, by a single leap, have plunged into its lowest depth. The hideous immensity itself, independent of the many frightful images which it embraced, almost caused an involuntary closing of the eyes against it. But when to the sight is added the appalling effect of the various unnatural and fearful noises, the muttering and sighing, the groaning and blowing, the every agonized struggling, of the mighty action within, as a whole, it is too horrible. And for the first moment I felt like one of my friends, who, on reaching the brink, recoiled, and covered his face, exclaiming, "Call it weakness, or what you please, but I cannot look again."—p. 375.

An ebbing tide of fire, the evil powers In fear and anger here are paramount, Rending the bosom of the fertile earth, And spreading desolation. Black as night, And terrible, as if the grave had sent Its own dark atmosphere to upper air, The heavy vapours rise; from out the smoke Break the red volumes of the central flame, And lava floods and burning showers descend, Parching the soil to barrenness. And yet there is the principle of life Within that fiery waste: when years have past, And Time, the beautifier, has been there, Then will the fierce volcano have consumed Its depths of flame, and there the coral reef Will spread; at first a bleak and dangerous waste; Until the wind bear on its wandering wings The fertilizing seeds; the salt sea tide Leave shells and weeds behind, to vegetate. The birds will come o'er ocean, and delight To find a tranquil home remote from men. Flowers will spring up, and trees; and last some ship Will penetrate the waste of waters round, And marvel at the lovely solitude.

According to the theory generally received at present among scientific men, the numerous coral islands of the Pacific are supposed to be formations upon extinct volcanoes.

The Grass-Rope Bridge, at Teree

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GRASS ROPE BRIDGE AT TEREE, - GURWALL. Artist: David Cox - Engraved by: W. Taylor

THE GRASS-ROPE BRIDGE, AT TEREE,

IN THE PROVINCE OF GURWALL.

"The English who have lost their health, often resort to these hills for the hot season, where the air and exercise are sometimes as beneficial as the voyage to Europe." The following verses allude to the early death of a young friend, who, adopted by some distant relatives, accompanied them to India; and died in this very spot, whither she had been taken for the recovery of her health.

We had to watch the fading Of that young and lovely cheek, And that pale lip's mute upbraiding, Which asked not sound to speak.

We saw that she was pining For her own loved English land, And her life's sweet light declining, For she loathed our Indian strand;

Her heart was with her mother, Far o'er the salt sea foam, And she could not love another, As she loved her early home.

She clung with love too tender To every former scene, For one of Eastern splendour, To be what they had been.

Alas, why did we bring her To this golden land in vain? Ah, would that we could wing her To her native land again!

We never see her weeping, But we know that she does weep; And she names loved names in sleeping, As she names them but in sleep.

We watch one bright spot burning On her cheek of hectic red, And we dread each day's returning, Lest it rise but for the dead.

Restormel Castle

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RESTORMEL CASTLE, CORNWALL. Artist: T. Allom - Engraved by: W. LePetit

RESTORMEL CASTLE.

It was the last Chief of Restormel, He sat within his tower, Dim burnt the hearth, and pale was the lamp, For it was the midnight hour.

It was not the sound of a mortal voice, Though it spoke with a mortal word, Mid the howl of the wind, and the dash of the wave, That the Chief of Restormel heard.

He heard a shriek on the midnight wind, And he heard a dying groan; Each gust through the sky, that went hurrying by, Brought his murdered brother's moan.

The dark hearth hissed with the falling rain, The lamp would burn no more; But redder and redder the bloodspots grew That stained the oaken floor.

Then he knew that the voice of his brother's blood Was crying aloud to heaven; And he knew that the present hour was one To the evil spirits given;

And fiendish shapes from the tapestry looked, And the lightning glared on the band; "Come," said a voice, and he felt on his heart The touch of an icy hand.

Fearful, they said, was the face of the dead, Whom his vassals found next day; For a clay-cold corse, in his midnight tower, The last Chief of Restormel lay.

Restormel Castle was one of the principal residences of the Earls of Cornwall. The above verses are founded on a traditionary story told of its last castellan, or constable.

The Water Palace, Mandoo

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THE WATER PALACE, - MANDOO. Artist: Copley Fielding - Engraved by: W. Floyd

THE WATER PALACE, MANDOO.

He built it, for he was a king, And wealth was at his will; He had another mountain hold Upon a mighty hill: But that was built in times of war With high and armed walls, With midnight watchers in its towers, And warriors in its halls; But this sweet palace was for peace, Built by the water-side, When Zerid sheathed the sword and won The Persian for his bride.

And beautiful round Ispahan Spread gardens of the rose, And 'mid her guarded solitude The young queen pined for those; The conqueror sought a lovely spot, And built a lovely home; Of porphyry was the shining floor, Of crystal was the dome. But lovelier were the cypresses That hung the lake beside; As beauties o'er their mirror bend, So bent they o'er the tide.

Those giant warriors of the wood, Palms with their leafy crest, Like waving feathers caught each breeze, That wandered from the west; And every breeze, of red rose leaves Brought down a crimson rain,

And fields of rice and scented grass Made green each distant plain; And cool and bright adown the stream The water lilies swept, As if within each silvery hold The god Camdeo slept.

She came, the young and royal bride, And if the place was fair, Before her eyes shed sunshine round, How fair when she was there! An hundred maidens and their lutes Came with their queen along; The mornings passed, the evenings passed, With story and with song: His sword the conqueror forgot, Her early home his bride— Whenever they and summer sought Their palace by the tide.

The early history of Mandoo is involved in much obscurity: it was first possessed by the Dhar Rajahs; to one of these the above verses refer.

Camdeo is the Indian Cupid. He is represented by the Hindoo writers as a beautiful youth, sometimes floating down the Ganges on a lotus; or, at others, riding on a loorie by moonlight, attended by dancing nymphs, the foremost of whom carries his banner, which displays a fish on a red ground. He bears four arrows, each headed by a different flower; his bow is formed of a sugar-cane, and strung with bees.—Sir W. Jones.

The lotus is a species of large lily, of which there are many varieties; some of a pure white, others tinged with a faint, others with a deep red. On a clear wave, the rich crimson has a splendid effect.—Asiatic Annual Register.

Lines on Curran’s Picture

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RIGHT HONBLE. JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN.

Artist: Sir Thomas Lawrence - Engraved by: C. J. Wagstaff

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LINES ON CURRAN'S PICTURE.

Oh! is it not a gallant sight to mark A little vessel breast the stormy sea, With sails triumphant swelling to the wind? Dashing the waters from her side in scorn, She cleaves the ocean, and, with arrowy prow, Scattering the snowy foam, a sparkling shower, And leaving a bright track behind, in sign Of victory. Our human pride delights In such a triumph over wind and wave, Because she knows 'tis not the plank and sail But human mind that holds the mastery. The canvass has been spread by human hand, And human hand it is that guides the helm. Methinks with nobler triumph we should mark Some gallant spirit through the sea of life Shape its successful course. Sustained, impelled By energy unconquerable within, A life like Curran's has enough to make Humanity ashamed and proud. 'Tis strange To think what toil is wasted upon some, How ancient scrolls unfold their precious store, The learned folio yields its silver clasp, The modern page marks out its easy way Some learned man to aid, assist, explain, And all to prove some fool is also dunce. Now watch the progress of a nobler mind: It has no aid, except from obstacles To conquer which invigorates: learned wealth As much debarred as golden; every step Made difficult by want of help; and books Things more of a desire than of a hope. And yet that boy will rise into a man. The honoured of his country, and will leave A name imperishable as the soul.

And such was Curran; 'twas a glorious sight To see him when his soul was on its spring, Gifted with all the mighty strength of words, Wit from his lip, and lightning from his eye, Flashing together—scorn enthroned on power— I'd rather have such stirring life as theirs, Who make their own way, and delight to make, Win wealth and honour by their own bright mind, Whose destiny is in itself—than bear The noblest name that ever belted Earl Left honoured to his son—

The Vale of Lonsdale

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THE VALE OF LONSDALE. Artist: J. Henderson - Engraved by: W. LePetit

THE VALE OF LONSDALE,

LANCASHIRE.

I could not dwell here, it is all too fair, Too sunny, too luxuriant; those green fields, With the rich shadows of their old oak trees, Or the more graceful sweep of the light ash; Fields where the skylark builds amid the grass, Trees where the thrush's nest is on the boughs; Those human dwellings, looking peace at least, In gardens, with their growth of cultured flowers; The quiet winding of that tideless stream, Whose very movement is repose, whose waves Are rarely stirred save by the falling rain, Which comes when sunshine asks relief from showers; I could not dwell here, it is far too fair, For my heart feels the contrast all too much, Between the placid scene, and its unrest.

Fowey Harbour and Polruan Castle, &c.

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FOWEY HARBOUR, ST. SAVIOUR’S CHAPEL & POLRUAN CASTLE. Artist: T. Allom - Engraved by: W. LePetit