[On Mrs. Fermor. This lady had been a widow long before I knew her. Her husband was of the family of the lady celebrated in the _Rape of the Lock_, and was, I believe, a Roman Catholic. The sorrow which his death caused her was fearful in its character as described in this poem, but was subdued in course of time by the strength of her religious faith. I have been for many weeks at a time, an inmate with her at Coleorton Hall, as were also Mrs. Wordsworth and my sister. The truth in the sketch of her character here given was acknowledged with gratitude by her nearest relatives. She was eloquent in conversation, energetic upon public matters, open in respect to those, but slow to communicate her personal feelings; upon these she never touched in her intercourse with me, so that I could not regard myself as her confidential friend, and was accordingly surprised when I learnt she had left me a legacy of £100, as a token of her esteem. See in further illustration the second stanza inscribed upon her cenotaph in Coleorton church.--I.F.] One of the "Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces." In 1827 the title was simply, _Elegiac Stanzas, 1824_, and the title of the group was then, and in 1832, "Epitaphs and Elegiac Poems."--ED. O for a dirge! But why complain? Ask rather a triumphal strain When FERMOR'S race is run; A garland of immortal boughs To twine[405] around the Christian's brows, 5 Whose glorious work is done. We pay a high and holy debt; No tears of passionate regret Shall stain this votive lay; Ill-worthy, Beaumont! were the grief 10 That flings itself on wild relief When Saints have passed away. Sad doom, at Sorrow's shrine to kneel, For ever covetous to feel, And impotent to bear! 15 Such once was hers--to think and think On severed love, and only sink From anguish to despair! But nature to its inmost part Faith had[406] refined; and to her heart 20 A peaceful cradle given: Calm as the dew-drop's, free to rest Within a breeze-fanned rose's breast Till it exhales to Heaven. Was ever Spirit that could bend: 25 So graciously?[407]--that could descend, Another's need to suit, So promptly from her lofty throne?-- In works of love, in these alone, How restless, how minute! 30 Pale was her hue; yet mortal cheek[408] Ne'er kindled with a livelier streak When aught had suffered wrong,-- When aught that breathes had felt a wound; Such look the Oppressor might confound, 35 However proud and strong.