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LINES,

WRITTEN IN THE

Park of Christ-Church, Ipswich,

THE SEAT OF THE

Rev. Charles William Fonnereau, LL.B.

BY J. R. 1809.

Christ Church is a spacious brick mansion, situated on the site of the ancient Priory of the Holy Trinity, in the parish of St. Margaret, Ipswich. It was erected and surrounded with a pale by Sir Edmund Withipoll, Knt. in 1549, as appears by the following inscription, over the porch of entrance:

FRVGALITATEM SIC SERVAS

VT

DISSIPATIONEM NON INCVRRAS

1549.

This family came from Italy. Sir Edmund Withipoll was High Sheriff of Norfolk and Suffolk in 1571; and in 1601 was knighted. He died Nov. 25, 1619, and is interred under an altar tomb, in the chancel of the church of St. Margaret, on which is the following inscription:

EDMVNDVS. WITHIPOLL. A°. DNI. 1574. SIBI. ET. POSTERITATI. POSVIT. MORTVI. SINE. HOSTE. E.W.

He married Frances, the daughter of Sir William Cornwallis, Knt. and had issue Sir William W. who married Jane, the daughter of Sir Michael Stanhope, of Sudbourn, Knt. the relict of Henry Lord Fitzwalter, eldest son of the Earl of Sussex, and had issue by her a sole daughter and heir, Elizabeth, who married Leicester Devereux, the sixth Viscount Hereford. She died in her husband's life time, leaving one daughter Frances, married to William, Viscount Tracy, of the kingdom of Ireland. Lord Hereford by his second wife Priscilla, the daughter of John Catchpole, of this county,

esq. left issue two sons, and two daughters, of whom Anne, the 2nd daughter, by the death of her two brothers without issue, and of her eldest sister, who died unmarried. became sole heir to the lordship of Christ Church. . She married Leicester Martin, esq. by whom she had issue an only daughter and heir, Elizabeth, who married in 1720, the Hon. Price Devereux, esq. Knight of the shire for the county of Montgomery, and the only son of the Right Hon. Viscount Hereford, and dying without issue August 16th, 1735, was interred in the chancel of the church of Sudbourn, near Orford. After her death Lord Hereford, in 17 sold this estate to Claude Fonnereau, esq. in whose descendant the Rev. Charles William Fonnereau, it is at present vested. This gentleman, with a liberality not very common, allows, on certain days, free access to this park, which is a most agreeable promenade, to the inhabitants of the town. Here is still to be seen a large bowling-green, which was formerly a necessary appendage to a gentleman's mansion. The surface of the park, though not of great extent, is pleasingly diversified, and commands some delightful views of the river, town, and adjacent country. It is well-timbered, and contains some fine, venerable Spanish chesnuts; and is stocked with some handsome deer, of a white colour spotted with black, which still further contribute to the beauty and variety of the scene.

HERE, where my infant feet have trod,
With childish glee, this dewy sod,
Oft has my mother smil'd to see
The antic sports of infancy;
Smil'd, as in childhood's happy hour,
We tried to reach the chesnut's flower,
And when we found our efforts vain,
Have beg'd of her the prize to gain ;
Then, with what triumph on each brow,
We fondly plac'd the varied bough;

Or bade its lovely hues adorn
A gentle mother's lovelier form.

Oft, when our sportive feet have strayed,
And chac'd the deer from shade to shade,
Her dreaded frown has checked the glee,
That caused the harmless race to flee;
And when the ruler of the day
Withdrew his last red ling'ring ray
How did our youthful bosoms mourn,
And sigh impatient to return.
Ah me! how like that lingering ray,
Pass'd childhood's happiest hours away!
And with them fled the friend of truth,
The mother, who sustain'd my youth!
Then for a season shades, like these,
Had lost their wonted power to please :
Sweet infancy's bright days were o'er,
And infant gambols charm'd no more.
Yet soon a sister's love sincere
Taught me to dry the filial tear.—
Ah! then these shades, again belov'd,
In youth's romantic hours we rov'd;
Here oft, beneath pale Cynthia's veil,
Have we rehears'd some mournful tale ;
Or when the sun's departing beams
Have glistened on my native streams,
Oft did the poet's page beguile,
And force a sigh, or raise a smile.
How blest we stray'd these shades among,
And listened to each warbler's song:

Or, starting, heard the bugle horn,
On evening's gentlest breezes borne.
Oh memory! these sad tears are thine,
For pleasures now no longer mine.

For she, the sister lov'd so well,
Now silent sleeps in death's dark cell,
And every joy these shades could boast,
On me is now for ever lost.

Still spreads yon beech its ample shade,
In summer's leafy pride array'd;
And still, in spring's delightful hour,
Yon chesnuts bear the varied flower.
And said I that each charm was lost,
That once for me these shades could boast?
No; still to nature's beauties true,
I love this landscape to review.
What though no longer gay as free
I tread these paths in ecstacy;
Yet still they boast the sacred power
To chace dark melancholy's hour:
O'er sorrow's wounds they pour a balm,
O'er poignant feelings shed a calm:
And whisper, as I pensive tread,

These rustling leaves, by autumn spread,
That, as like leaves, our forms of clay
Awhile shall flourish, then decay

Yet 'mid the winter of the

grave,

The germ immortal God will save,
And bid it, from the dreary tomb,
In everlasting beauty bloom,
For ever green the plant shall be,

Water'd by immortality;

Around whose fount, in grace divine,

These earth-rear'd plants shall ever shine. Delightful day-dreams, where I see

Bright visions of futurity!

Oft have ye robb'd me of my care,
And snatch'd my spirit from despair.

Let no stern moralist look down
Upon these day-dreams with a frown,
Nor deem them fancies of a mind,
To imbecility consign'd.

Oft have they stol'n an hour from grief,
And to my bosom brought relief;
When reason cold denied her aid,
To bear me from pale sorrow's shade.
Yes; they have taught my soul to rise,
To leave the earth, and seek the skies;
Forc'd me to own, in spite of fate,
That God's decrees were wise and great.
Then still I hail you, shades approv'd
In youth, and age mature belov'd ;
And still with joy I press the sod,
Where oft my infant feet have trod;
And love, though different feelings reign,
To tread the haunts of youth again.

THE

Loyalty of Woodbridge:

BY WILLIAM STYGALL

Friday July the 8th 1814, being the day appointed for the grand Festival, in commemoration of the return of Peace, the ringing of bells, the soul-cheering music of the fife and drum, and the deep thunder of artillery, greeted the arrival of the morning. All was noise and glee and jollity; and that the amusements of the day might not be alloyed by the dull occupations of business, the shops were closed

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