Bloomington herald. [volume] (Bloomington, I. T. [Iowa]) 1840-1849, 1841-05-21
CHURCH.YARD SKETCHES.

Shalt thou be glorifed!
CHURCH-YARDS SKETCHES.
BY R. B. THATCHER.
remember spot among the Cumber-
land hills that might have inspired poet.
It was the little church and church-yard of
Borrowdale the smallest building of its
class in England, it is stated. Mr.. Words
worth, who lives in the neighborhood, said
it was "no bigger than COTTAGE" and
thus, indeed, it seemed, when, at the end
of long ramble, found it so nestled
away in the niche of l-side, so buried
and wrapped in shade and solitude, that it
was difficult to realize how even the nar>
row space within its walls should ever be
filled by human worshippers. Another
such picture the pedestrian may have to
think of, who, sauntering along the hedge
lined-by ways of the lovely Isle of Wight,
suddenly stays his steps, unconsciously,
to gaze over into the sweet, small garden
of graves clustering all around the humble
but exquisite Church of st. Lawrence /;
some of them, on the upper side of the
mountain slope, nearly as high as the
moss grown roof of the building, over
which one sees, from the roadside, a
glimpse of the lonely sea, spread out at the
base of the mountain. Nothing can ex-
coed the beauty Of the proportions of this
ancient edifice, unnatural as it is. The
slope of the hill it is set on, it is SO steep
that the road just mentioned, is cut into it
like groove. On the upper side, a cliff
towers up over ones head, almost perpen-
dicularly, some hundred feet, yet every
where, from the moisture of the climate,
and the richness of the soil that still clings
to The rocks. mantled with soft silky robe
of the sweetest verdure the eye ever saw,
brightly spotted with cluster of flowers,
and small shrubs flourishing out from the
crevices, and sometimes laden with vines.
Below the church, the scene grows wider.
The hillside shows, far up from the wa>
ter-mark, traces of the fierce power of the
element which sleeps now so quietly at its
feet. Huge sea-stained points fcrags peer
out grimly on every side; the vegetation is
wi,hered, and disappears as we wind far
Their down the dizzy foot-pa,h the egg
hunters have trodden; and now breaks
out upon US, in its full volume, that terri>
Bile thunder Of the surge of even these
slumbering waves. But it is thunder that
comes only in mellowed music to him
who saunters, as did, in the noiselcss av-
enucs of the little sanctuary in the niche Of
the hillside above. Many time stay.
ed my steps to listen to this murmur, as
borne on the gusts of the ''sweet sea air,
sweet and strange" it swelled and fell at
intervals, like spirit voices whispering to
those who lay beneath. No J! not to them.
Theirs is the "dull, cold ear" that will not
hear. TO me, to all who visit this bless
ed temple, this sacred ground, to us, to us
they speak. They tell us Of the history
below us, and of the destiny before. They
mind Us we'll of the life we are living ah!
better still of that we have not lived, where
there is no more "moaning Of the sea.
1t was in this graveyard I noticed a
humble heap piled over the remains Of
one whose annals, as the modest marble
at its head recorded them, touched my
heart. 1t was young and beautiful girl.
She came TO this neighborhood, I think,
from Wales, probably for the restoration
of health. But alas no herb, nor sea air,
nor care of relatives or friend, could save
her no not the yearning tenderness or
breaking heart of him who loved her best,
and who weeps now over the untimely
tale read. TO him she had been long
betrothed, and trusting still that dear de-
ceiving hope which never leaves us, and
which the poor perishing consumptive and
her kindred cling to so fondly, till life's
light goes quite out-in this hope the mar
riage day was appointed. Preparations,
even, were made for it. On that day she
: died, and here she is buried, as IN her last
murmurs she asked that she might be-in
her bridal dress Peace be to her ashes
she "sleeps well'' in the graveyard Of St.
Lawrence!
Not very far, but very different from
this, is the yard Of the gray old church Of
Chale, which stands in the immediate
neighLorhood of tremendous precipice,
on the brink of the sea, called Blackgang
Chine. Deep under this awful barrier a
small. snug cove runs in, making what the
islanders en.i!le Chale Bay; in itself a
Wild vet pleasing and generally tranquil