Robert Southey

(to the rainbow) Mild arch of promise! on the evening sky Thou shinest fair with many a lovely ray Each in the other melting. Much mine eye Delights to linger on thee; for the

Did then the bold Slave rear at last the Sword Of Vengeance? drench’d he deep its thirsty blade In the cold bosom of his tyrant lord? Oh! who shall blame him? thro’ the midnight

I charm thy life, From the weapons of strife, From stone and from wood, From fire and from flood, From the serpent’s tooth, And the beast of blood. From sickness I charm thee, And

Hold your mad hands! for ever on your plain Must the gorged vulture clog his beak with blood? For ever must your Niger’s tainted flood, Roll to the ravenous shark his banquet slain? Hold

Here Stranger rest thee! from the neighbouring towers Of Oxford, haply thou hast forced thy bark Up this strong stream, whose broken waters here Send pleasant murmurs to the listening sense: Rest thee beneath

You are old, Father William, the young man cried, The few locks which are left you are grey; You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man, Now tell me the reason I pray.

Art thou a Patriot Traveller? on this field Did FALKLAND fall the blameless and the brave Beneath a Tyrant’s banners: dost thou boast Of loyal ardor? HAMBDEN perish’d here, The rebel HAMBDEN, at whose

Weary way-wanderer languid and sick at heart Travelling painfully over the rugged road, Wild-visag’d Wanderer! ah for thy heavy chance! Sorely thy little one drags by thee bare-footed, Cold is the baby that hangs

Poussin! most pleasantly thy pictur’d scenes Beguile the lonely hour; I sit and gaze With lingering eye, till charmed FANCY makes The lovely landscape live, and the rapt soul From the foul haunts of

Glad as the weary traveller tempest-tost To reach secure at length his native coast, Who wandering long o’er distant lands has sped, The night-blast wildly howling round his head, Known all the woes of

Fair is the rising morn when o’er the sky The orient sun expands his roseate ray, And lovely to the Bard’s enthusiast eye Fades the meek radiance of departing day; But fairer is the

Author Note: In Finland there is a Castle which is called the New Rock, moated about with a river of unfounded depth, the water black and the fish therein Very distateful to the palate.

Think Valentine, as speeding on thy way Homeward thou hastest light of heart along, If heavily creep on one little day The medley crew of travellers among, Think on thine absent friend: reflect that

Hard by the road, where on that little mound The high grass rustles to the passing breeze, The child of Misery rests her head in peace. Pause there in sadness. That unhallowed ground Inshrines

The Raven croak’d as she sate at her meal, And the Old Woman knew what he said, And she grew pale at the Raven’s tale, And sicken’d and went to her bed. ‘Now fetch

Enter this cavern Stranger! the ascent Is long and steep and toilsome; here awhile Thou mayest repose thee, from the noontide heat O’ercanopied by this arch’d rock that strikes A grateful coolness: clasping its

Tho’ now no more the musing ear Delights to listen to the breeze That lingers o’er the green wood shade, I love thee Winter! well. Sweet are the harmonies of Spring, Sweet is the

This is the place where William’s kingly power Did from their poor and peaceful homes expel, Unfriended, desolate, and shelterless, The habitants of all the fertile track Far as these wilds extend. He levell’d

(Time, Noon.) HUMPHREY: See’st thou not William that the scorching Sun By this time half his daily race has run? The savage thrusts his light canoe to shore And hurries homeward with his fishy

Oh he is worn with toil! the big drops run Down his dark cheek; hold hold thy merciless hand, Pale tyrant! for beneath thy hard command O’erwearied Nature sinks. The scorching Sun, As pityless

Why dost thou beat thy breast and rend thine hair, And to the deaf sea pour thy frantic cries? Before the gale the laden vessel flies; The Heavens all-favoring smile, the breeze is fair;

(Time Night. Scene the woods.) Where shall I turn me? whither shall I bend My weary way? thus worn with toil and faint How thro’ the thorny mazes of this wood Attain my distant

Dark HORROR, hear my call! Stern Genius hear from thy retreat On some old sepulchre’s moss-cankered seat, Beneath the Abbey’s ivied wall That trembles o’er its shade; Where wrapt in midnight gloom, alone, Thou

High in the air expos’d the Slave is hung To all the birds of Heaven, their living food! He groans not, tho’ awaked by that fierce Sun New torturers live to drink their parent

Author Note: Divers Princes and Noblemen being assembled in a beautiful and fair Palace, which was situate upon the river Rhine, they beheld a boat or Small barge make toward the shore, drawn by

(to a brook near the village of Corston.) As thus I bend me o’er thy babbling stream And watch thy current, Memory’s hand pourtrays The faint form’d scenes of the departed days, Like the

Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly! Leave thy guilty sire to die. O’er the heath the stripling fled, The wild storm howling round his head. Fear mightier thro’ the shades of night Urged his

Come melancholy Moralizer come! Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath; With me engarland now The SEPULCHRE OF TIME! Come Moralizer to the funeral song! I pour the dirge of the Departed Days,

How darkly o’er yon far-off mountain frowns The gather’d tempest! from that lurid cloud The deep-voiced thunders roll, aweful and loud Tho’ distant; while upon the misty downs Fast falls in shadowy streaks the

Porlock! thy verdant vale so fair to sight, Thy lofty hills which fern and furze imbrown, The waters that roll musically down Thy woody glens, the traveller with delight Recalls to memory, and the

O thou who from the mountain’s height Roll’st down thy clouds with all their weight Of waters to old Niles majestic tide; Or o’er the dark sepulchral plain Recallest thy Palmyra’s ancient pride, Amid

Cold was the night wind, drifting fast the snows fell, Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked, When a poor Wanderer struggled on her journey Weary and way-sore. Drear were the downs, more

Small is the new-born plant scarce seen Amid the soft encircling green, Where yonder budding acorn rears, Just o’er the waving grass, its tender head: Slow pass along the train of years, And on