That by custom of this clime, Even from immemorial time, We, or our forefathers old (As in Withering’s list enrolled) Have in occupation been Of all nooks and corners green Where the swelling meadows sweet With the waving woodlands meet. There we peep and disappear, There, in games to fairies dear All the spring-tide hours we spend, Hiding, seeking without end. And sometimes a merry train Comes upon us from the lane: Every gleaming afternoon All through April, May, and June, Boys and maidens, birds and bees, Airy whisperings of all trees, With their music will supply All we need of sympathy. Now and then a graver guest For one moment here will rest Loitering in his pastoral walk, And with us hold kindly talk. To himself we’ve heard him say, “Thanks that I may hither stray, Worn with age and sin and care, Here to breathe the pure, glad air, Here Faith’s lesson learn anew, Of this happy vernal crew. Here the fragrant shrubs around, And the graceful shadowy ground, And the village tones afar, And the steeple with its star, And the clouds that gently move, Turn the heart to trust and love.” Thus we fared in ages past, But the nineteenth age at last, (As your suppliants are advised) Reigns, and we no more are prized. Now a giant plump and tall, Called High Farming stalks o’er all, Platforms, railings and straight lines, Are the charms for which he pines. Forms mysterious, ancient hues, He with untired hate pursues; And his cruel word and will Is, from every copse-crowned hill Every glade in meadow deep, Us and our green bowers to sweep. Now our prayer is, Here and there May your Honour deign to spare Shady spots and nooks, where we Yet may flourish, safe and free. So old Hampshire still may own (Charm to other shires unknown) Bays and creeks of grassy lawn Half beneath his woods withdrawn; So from many a joyous child, Many a sire and mother mild, For the sheltering boughs so sweet And the blossoms at their feet, Thanks with prayers shall find their way; And we flowers, if we may pray, With our very best would own Your young floweret newly blown. ANEMONE NEMOROSA PRIMULA VULGARIS ORCHIS DAFFODIL COWSLIP STRAWBERRY VIOLET Innumerable Signatures. etc. etc. etc. LADWELL HILL, 2_nd_ _April_ 1851. “The young flow’ret newly blown” was Sir William’s son Godfrey, who faded at seven years old. When his mind was wandering, one of his dreamy utterances was, “I should like to fly softly.” And therefore Mr. Keble suggested that the words on his little grave (outside the mausoleum) should be “Who are these that fly as a cloud?”