WILLIAM BENWELL, M.A.[13] Thou camest with kind looks, when on the brink Almost of death I strove, and with mild voice Didst soothe me, bidding my poor heart rejoice, Though smitten sore: Oh, I did little think That thou, my friend, wouldst the first victim fall To the stern King of Terrors! Thou didst fly, By pity prompted, at the poor man's cry; And soon thyself were stretched beneath the pall, Livid infection's prey.

The deep distress Of her, who best thy inmost bosom knew, To whom thy faith was vowed; thy soul was true, What powers of faltering language shall express?
As friendship bids, I feebly breathe my own, And sorrowing say, Pure spirit, thou art gone! [13] An accomplished young friend of the author--a poet and a scholar, formerly fellow of Trinity College, Oxford--who died of a typhus fever, caught in administering the sacrament to one of his parishioners.

Mr Benwell had only been married eleven weeks when he died.
AT MALVERN.
I shall behold far off thy towering crest, Proud mountain! from thy heights as slow I stray Down through the distant vale my homeward way, I shall behold upon thy rugged breast, The parting sun sit smiling: me the while Escaped the crowd, thoughts full of heaviness May visit, as life's bitter losses press Hard on my bosom; but I shall beguile The thing I am, and think, that ev'n as thou Dost lift in the pale beam thy forehead high, Proud mountain! whilst the scattered vapours fly Unheeded round thy breast,--so, with calm brow, The shades of sorrow I may meet, and wear The smile unchanged of peace, though pressed by care! NETLEY ABBEY.
Fall'n pile! I ask not what has been thy fate; But when the winds, slow wafted from the main, Through each rent arch, like spirits that complain, Come hollow to my ear, I meditate On this world's passing pageant, and the lot Of those who once majestic in their prime Stood smiling at decay, till bowed by time Or injury, their early boast forgot, They may have fall'n like thee! Pale and forlorn, Their brow, besprent with thin hairs, white as snow, They lift, still unsubdued, as they would scorn This short-lived scene of vanity and woe; Whilst on their sad looks smilingly they bear The trace of creeping age, and the pale hue of care! ASSOCIATIONS.
As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds, Still on that vision which is flown I dwell, On images I loved, alas, too well! Now past, and but remembered like sweet sounds Of yesterday! Yet in my breast I keep Such recollections, painful though they seem, And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream I start, and find them not; then I could weep To think how Fortune blights the fairest flowers; To think how soon life's first endearments fail, And we are still misled by Hope's smooth tale, Who, like a flatterer, when the happiest hours Pass, and when most we call on her to stay, Will fly, as faithless and as fleet as they! MUSIC.
O harmony! thou tenderest nurse of pain, If that thy note's sweet magic e'er can heal Griefs which the patient spirit oft may feel, Oh! let me listen to thy songs again; Till memory her fairest tints shall bring; Hope wake with brighter eye, and listening seem With smiles to think on some delightful dream, That waved o'er the charmed sense its gladsome wing! For when thou leadest all thy soothing strains More smooth along, the silent passions meet In one suspended transport, sad and sweet; And nought but sorrow's softest touch remains; That, when the transitory charm is o'er, Just wakes a tear, and then is felt no more.
APPROACH OF SUMMER.
How shall I meet thee, Summer, wont to fill My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide First came, and on the Coomb's romantic side Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow bill! Fresh flowers shall fringe the margin of the stream, As with the songs of joyance and of hope The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and on the slope The poplars sparkle in the passing beam; The shrubs and laurels that I loved to tend, Thinking their May-tide fragrance would delight, With many a peaceful charm, thee, my poor friend, Shall put forth their green shoots, and cheer the sight! But I shall mark their hues with sadder eyes, And weep the more for one who in the cold earth lies! AT OXFORD, 1786.
Bereave me not of Fancy's shadowy dreams, Which won my heart, or when the gay career Of life begun, or when at times a tear Sat sad on memory's cheek--though loftier themes Await the awakened mind to the high prize Of wisdom, hardly earned with toil and pain, Aspiring patient; yet on life's wide plain Left fatherless, where many a wanderer sighs Hourly, and oft our road is lone and long, 'Twere not a crime should we a while delay Amid the sunny field; and happier they Who, as they journey, woo the charm of song, To cheer their way;--till they forget to weep, And the tired sense is hushed, and sinks to sleep.
AT DOVER, 1786.
Thou, whose stern spirit loves the storm, That, borne on Terror's desolating wings, Shakes the high forest, or remorseless flings The shivered surge; when rising griefs deform Thy peaceful breast, hie to yon steep, and think,-- When thou dost mark the melancholy tide Beneath thee, and the storm careering wide,-- Tossed on the surge of life how many sink! And if thy cheek with one kind tear be wet, And if thy heart be smitten, when the cry Of danger and of death is heard more nigh, Oh, learn thy private sorrows to forget; Intent, when hardest beats the storm, to save One who, like thee, has suffered from the wave.
RETROSPECTION.
I turn these leaves with thronging thoughts, and say, Alas! how many friends of youth are dead; How many visions of fair hope have fled, Since first, my Muse, we met .-- So speeds away Life, and its shadows; yet we sit and sing, Stretched in the noontide bower, as if the day Declined not, and we yet might trill our lay Beneath the pleasant morning's purple wing That fans us; while aloft the gay clouds shine! Oh, ere the coming of the long cold night, Religion, may we bless thy purer light, That still shall warm us, when the tints decline O'er earth's dim hemisphere; and sad we gaze On the vain visions of our passing days! ON ACCIDENTALLY MEETING A LADY NOW NO MORE.
WRITTEN MANY YEARS AFTER THE FOREGOING SONNETS.
When last we parted, thou wert young and fair-- How beautiful let fond remembrance say! Alas! since then old Time has stol'n away Nigh forty years, leaving my temples bare:-- So hath it perished, like a thing of air, That dream of love and youth:--we now are gray; Yet still remembering youth's enchanted way, Though time has changed my look, and blanched my hair, Though I remember one sad hour with pain, And never thought, long as I yet might live, And parted long, to hear that voice again;-- I can a sad, but cordial greeting, give, And for thy welfare breathe as warm a prayer, Lady, as when I loved thee young and fair! ON HEARING "THE MESSIAH" PERFORMED IN GLOUCESTER CATHEDRAL, SEPT.

18, 1835.
Oh, stay, harmonious and sweet sounds, that die In the long vaultings of this ancient fane! Stay, for I may not hear on earth again Those pious airs--that glorious harmony; Lifting the soul to brighter orbs on high, Worlds without sin or sorrow! Ah, the strain Has died--ev'n the last sounds that lingeringly Hung on the roof ere they expired! And I, Stand in the world of strife, amidst a throng, A throng that recks not or of death, or sin! Oh, jarring scenes! to cease, indeed, ere long; The worm hears not the discord and the din; But he whose heart thrills to this angel song, Feels the pure joy of heaven on earth begin! WOODSPRING ABBEY, 1836.[14] These walls were built by men who did a deed Of blood:--terrific conscience, day by day, Followed, where'er their shadow seemed to stay, And still in thought they saw their victim bleed, Before God's altar shrieking: pangs succeed, As dire upon their heart the deep sin lay, No tears of agony could wash away: Hence! to the land's remotest limit, speed! These walls are raised in vain, as vainly flows Contrition's tear: Earth, hide them, and thou, Sea, Which round the lone isle, where their bones repose, Dost sound for ever, their sad requiem be, In fancy's ear, at pensive evening's close, Still murmuring{b} MISERERE, DOMINE.
[14] Three mailed men, in Canterbury Cathedral, rushed on the Archbishop of Canterbury, and murdered him before the altar.

Conscience-stricken, they fled and built Woodspring Abbey, in the remote corner of Somersetshire, near Western Super Mare, where the land looks on the Atlantic sea.