Thomas Warton

The Pleasures of Melancholy

Mother of musings, Contemplation sage, Whose grotto stands upon the topmost rock Of Teneriffe; ‘mid the tempestuous night, On which, in calmest meditation held, Thou hear’st with howling winds the beating rain And drifting

Written at Stonehenge

Thou noblest monument of Albion’s isle! Whether by Merlin’s aid, from Scythia’s shore, To Amber’s fatal plain Pendragon bore, Huge frame of giant-hands, the mighty pile T’ entomb his Britons slain by Hengist’s guile:

Verses on Sir Joshua Reynold’s Painted Window at New College, Oxford

Ah, stay thy treacherous hand, forbear to trace Those faultless forms of elegance and grace! Ah, cease to spread the bright transparent mass, With Titian’s pencil, o’er the speaking glass! Nor steal, by strokes

On King Arthur’s Round Table at Winchester

Where Venta’s Norman castle still uprears Its rafter’d hall, that o’er the grassy foss, And scatter’d flinty fragments clad in moss, On yonder steep in naked state appears; High hung remains, the pride of

Ode To Sleep

On this my pensive pillow, gentle Sleep! Descend, in all thy downy plumage drest: Wipe with thy wing these eyes that wake to weep, And place thy crown of poppies on my breast. O

Solitude at an Inn

Oft upon the twilight plain, Circled with thy shadowy train, While the dove at distance coo’d, Have I met thee, Solitude! Then was loneliness to me Best and true society, But ah! how alter’d

While Summer Suns O’er the Gay Prospect Play’d

While summer suns o’er the gay prospect play’d, Through Surrey’s verdant scenes, where Epsom spread ‘Mid intermingling elms her flowery meads, And Hascombe’s hill, in towering groves array’d, Rear’d its romantic steep, with mind