The verses will speak for themselves, and are not unworthy
his muse whose poem suggested the comparisons. The inscription is placed
over the large Indian shell:--
"Snatch'd from an Indian ocean's roar,
I drink the whelming tide no more;
But in this rock, remote and still,
Now serve to pour the murmuring rill.
Listen! Do thoughts awake, which long have slept--
Oh! like his song, who placed me here,
The sweetest song to Memory dear,
When life's tumultuous storms are past,
May we, to such sweet music, close at last
The eyelids that have wept!"
Leaving the small oratory, a terrace of flowers leads to a Gothic
stone-seat at the end, and, returning to the flower-garden, we wind up a
narrow path from the more verdant scene, to a small dark path, with
fantastic roots shooting from the bank, where a grave-stone appears, on
which an hour-glass is carved.
A root-house fronts us, with dark boughs branching over it. Sit down in
that old carved chair. If I cannot welcome some illustrious visitors in
such consummate verse as Pope, I may, I hope, not without blameless
pride, tell you, reader, in this chair have sat some public characters,
distinguished by far more noble qualities than "the nobly pensive St.
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