# Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book, 1839/Matlock

68
* MATLOCK, DERBYSHIRE.
* Artist: T. Allom - Engraved by: S. Lacey
MATLOCK,
TO THE MEMORY OF A FAVOURITE CHILD (THE DAUGHTER OF A FRIEND) WHO DIED THERE.
Her voice is on the haunted air,  Her face is in the scene; To me there is no other trace  But where her steps have been. Not with the passionate despair  With which I turned from Heaven, And asked how could it take again  The treasure it had given; Not with that earlier wild despair, Now gaze I upon earth and air.
A meeker sorrow now subdues  The soul that looks above, Soothed by the sanctity that dwells  Around departed love. I do not grieve as once I grieved,  When by thy funeral stone I flung me in my first despair,  And knew I was alone. Gradual thy God has given me To know this world was not for thee.
Thy angel-nature was not made  For struggle or for care; Thou wert too gentle and too good  For Heaven long to spare. Thou wert but sent a little while  To soothe and to sustain; The angels missed thee from their band,  And asked for thee again: But not till thou hadst given birth To many a holy thought on earth.
Thy influence is with me still,  My own beloved child; For thy sake hath my spirit grown  Calm—hopeful—strong, yet mild. I look to heaven as to thy home,  And feel that there must be— So deep the tie that draws me there—  Some lowly place for me. The faith that springeth from the tomb Nor mortal fears nor doubts consume.
I think upon thy early years  Not as I used to think, With bitterness and vain regret,  And hopes that sprang to shrink, But with a solemn fond belief  That we shall meet again: Thy piety—thy sweet content—  Could never be in vain; Taken alike wert thou, and given, To win thy kindred unto heaven.
It was the lovely autumn time  When hither thou wert brought; Not for the lovely scenes around,  But for thy health we sought. For there was in thy large blue eyes  Too beautiful a light, And on thy young transparent cheek  The rose was over-bright; And the clear temples showed too plain The branching of each azure vein.
Too soon we saw it was in vain  That we had brought thee here: For every day thou weft more weak,  And every day more dear. Thy hand—how white and small that hand!—  Could scarcely hold the flowers Which yet were brought thee, with the dew  Of early morning hours. I seem to look upon them now— Yet, where are they?—and where art thou?—
Where art thou?—if I dare to ask,  'Tis more with hope than fear; In every high and tender thought  I seem to feel thee near. I gaze upon the silent stars,  While lone and still they shine, As each one were a spirit’s home,  And ask, Which home is thine? I feel as if thy tranquil eyes Were watching earth from yonder skies.
God bless thee! my beloved child,  As thou hast blessed me; Faith, hope, and love, beyond the grave  Have been thy gifts to me. For thy sake dare I look above,  For thy sake wait below, Trusting with humble confidence,  And patient in my wo. To me thy early grave appears An altar for my prayers and tears.
Matlock and its vicinity, on the banks of the Derwent, in Derbyshire, are celebrated for their thermal springs, and romantic scenery. The waters, which resemble those of Clifton, were discovered in 1698, and are useful in rheumatic affections, and incipient consumption. The "Heights of Abraham" are a pile of picturesque rocks, in the fissures of which the roots of the most luxuriant trees are able to find sufficient nourishment. The beautiful mineral, called Derbyshire spar, from which vases and chimney ornaments are formed, is obtained here.