I was unable to do justice to the
thoughts in less room. The second has brought Sir John Beaumont and his
brother Francis so livelily to my mind that I recur to the plan of
republishing the former's poems, perhaps in connection with those of
Francis."

On November 16, 1811, he wrote to him again, "I am glad that the
inscriptions please you. It did always appear to me, that inscriptions,
particularly those in verse, or in a dead language, were never supposed
_necessarily_ to be the composition of those in whose name they
appeared. If a more striking or more dramatic effect could be produced,
I have always thought, that in an epitaph or memorial of any kind, a
father or husband, etc., might be introduced speaking, without any
absolute deception being intended; that is, the reader is understood to
be at liberty to say to himself,--these verses, or this Latin, may be
the composition of some unknown person, and not that of the father,
widow, or friend, from whose hand or voice they profess to proceed.... I
have altered the verses, and I have only to regret that the alteration
is not more happily done. But I never found anything more difficult. I
wished to preserve the expression _patrimonial grounds_,[A] but I found
this impossible, on account of the awkwardness of the pronouns, he and
his, as applied to Reynolds, and to yourself. This, even when it does
not produce confusion, is always inelegant. I was, therefore, obliged to
drop it; so that we must be content, I fear, with the inscription as it
stands below. I hope it will do. I tried a hundred different ways, but
cannot hit upon anything better...."--ED.

VARIANTS:

[1] 1815.

Shall ... 1820.

The text of 1827 returns to that of 1815.

[2] And to a favourite resting-place invite,
For coolness grateful and a sober light;

Inserted only in the editions of 1815 and 1820, and in a MS. letter
to Sir George Beaumont, 1811.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] See p. 79, l. 13.--ED.

IN A GARDEN OF THE SAME

Composed 1811.--Published 1815

[This Niche is in the sandstone-rock in the winter-garden at Coleorton,
which garden, as has been elsewhere said, was made under our direction
out of an old unsightly quarry. While the labourers were at work, Mrs.
Wordsworth, my sister and I used to amuse ourselves occasionally in
scooping this seat out of the soft stone. It is of the size, with
something of the appea