[_The Tablet is erected to the Memory of Richard Camplin, who died Jan. 20, 1792._
'Lætus abi! mundi strepitu curisque remotus; Lætus abi! cæli quâ vocat alma Quies. Ipsa fides loquitur lacrymamque incusat inanem, Quæ cadit in vestros, care Pater, Cineres. Heu! tantum liceat meritos hos solvere Ritus, 5 Naturæ et tremulâ dicere Voce, Vale!']
[177:1] First published in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 50. First collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii. 365.
[ADDRESSED TO CHARLES LAMB, OF THE INDIA HOUSE, LONDON]
In the June of 1797 some long-expected friends paid a visit to the author's cottage; and on the morning of their arrival, he met with an accident, which disabled him from walking during the whole time of their stay. One evening, when they had left him for a few hours, he composed the following lines in the garden-bower.[178:2]
Well, they are gone, and here must I remain, This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost Beauties and feelings, such as would have been Most sweet to my remembrance even when age Had dimm'd mine eyes to blindness! They, meanwhile, 5 Friends, whom I never more may meet again, On springy[179:1] heath, along the hill-top edge, Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance, To that still roaring dell, of which I told; The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep, 10 And only speckled by the mid-day sun; Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock Flings arching like a bridge;--that branchless ash, Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still, 15 Fann'd by the water-fall! and there my friends Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds,[179:2] That all at once (a most fantastic sight!) Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge Of the blue clay-stone.
Now, my friends emerge 20 Beneath the wide wide Heaven--and view again The many-steepled tract magnificent Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea, With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles 25 Of purple shadow! Yes! they wander on In gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad, My gentle-hearted Charles! for thou hast pined And hunger'd after Nature, many a year, In the great City pent, winning thy way 30 With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain And strange calamity! Ah! slowly sink Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun! Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb, Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds! 35 Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves! And kindle, thou blue Ocean! So my friend Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood, Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing round On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem 40 Less gross than bodily; and of such hues As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes Spirits perceive his presence.