William Lisle Bowles

On the Funeral of Charles the First

The castle clock had tolled midnight: With mattock and with spade, And silent, by the torches’ light, His corse in earth we laid. The coffin bore his name, that those Of other years might

On Hearing

O stay, harmonious and sweet sounds, that die In the long vaultings of this ancient fane! Stay, for I may not hear on earth again Those pious airs that glorious harmony; Lifting the soul

Sonnet: Languid, And Sad, And Slow, From Day To Day

Languid, and sad, and slow, from day to day I journey on, yet pensive turn to view (Where the rich landscape gleams with softer hue) The streams and vales, and hills, that steal away.

Sonnet: At Ostend, July 22nd 1787

How sweet the tuneful bells’ responsive peal! As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease, So piercing to my heart their force I feel! And hark!

III. O Thou, whose stern command and precepts pure

O THOU, whose stern command and precepts pure (Tho’ agony in every vein should start, And slowly drain the blood-drops from the heart) Have bade the patient spirit still endure; Thou, who to sorrow

Time and Grief

O TIME! who know’st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest unperceived away; On thee I rest my

I. Written at Tinemouth, Northumberland, after a Tempestuous Voyage

AS slow I climb the cliff’s ascending side, Much musing on the track of terror past When o’er the dark wave rode the howling blast Pleas’d I look back, and view the tranquil tide,

Sonnet: July 18th 1787

O Time! who know’st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest unperceived away; On thee I rest my

IF chance some pensive stranger, hither led, His bosom glowing from majestic views, The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscape’s hues, Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed ‘Tis poor Matilda! To the

XIV. On a Distant View of England

AH! from my eyes the tears unbidden start, Albion! as now thy cliffs (that bright appear Far o’er the wave, and their proud summits rear To meet the beams of morn) my beating heart,

XI. Written at Ostend

HOW sweet the tuneful bells’ responsive peal! As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease, So piercing to my heart their force I feel! And hark!

Sonnet: At Dover Cliffs, July 20th 1787

On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet, Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat, Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood; And

II. Written at Bamborough Castle

YE holy tow’rs, that crown the azure deep, Still may ye shade the wave-worn rock sublime, Though, hurrying silent by, relentless Time Assail you, and the winter Whirlwind’s sweep! For far from blazing Grandeur’s

Bereavement

Whose was that gentle voice, that, whispering sweet, Promised methought long days of bliss sincere! Soothing it stole on my deluded ear, Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat Thoughts dark and drooping!

To a Friend

Go, then, and join the murmuring city’s throng! Me thou dost leave to solitude and tears; To busy phantasies, and boding fears, Lest ill betide thee; but ‘t will not be long Ere the

On a Beautiful Landscape

Beautiful landscape! I could look on thee For hours, unmindful of the storm and strife, And mingled murmurs of tumultuous life. Here, all is still as fair the stream, the tree, The wood, the

VII. At a Village in Scotland

O NORTH! as thy romantic vales I leave, And bid farewell to each retiring hill, Where thoughtful fancy seems to linger still, Tracing the broad bright landscape; much I grieve That mingled with the

IV. To the River Wenbeck

AS slowly wanders thy forsaken stream, Wenbeck! the mossy-scatter’d rocks among, In fancy’s ear still making plaintive song To the dark woods above: ah! sure I seem To meet some friendly Genius in the

XIII. O Time! Who Know'st a Lenient Hand to Lay

O TIME! who know’st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence, (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) Stealest the long-forgotten pang away; On Thee I rest my only

Sonnet: O Poverty! Though From Thy Haggard Eye

O, Poverty! though from thy haggard eye, Thy cheerless mien, of every charm bereft, Thy brow that Hope’s last traces long have left, Vain Fortune’s feeble sons with terror fly; I love thy solitary

In Youth

Milton, our noblest poet, in the grace Of youth, in those fair eyes and clustering hair, That brow untouched by one faint line of care, To mar its openness, we seem to trace The

Netley Abbey

Fallen pile! I ask not what has been thy fate; But when the winds, slow wafted from the main, Through each rent arch, like spirits that complain, Come hollow to my ear, I meditate

V. To the River Tweed

O TWEED! a stranger, that with wand’ring feet O’er hill and dale has journey’d many a mile, (If so his weary thoughts he might beguile) Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to greet. The waving

In Age

And art thou he, now “fallen on evil days,” And changed indeed! Yet what do this sunk cheek, These thinner locks, and that calm forehead speak! A spirit reckless of man’s blame or praise,

IX. O Poverty! though from thy haggard eye

O POVERTY! though from thy haggard eye, Thy cheerless mein, of every charm bereft, Thy brow, that hope’s last traces long have left, Vain Fortune’s feeble sons with terror fly; Thy rugged paths with

X. On Dover Cliffs

ON these white cliffs, that calm above the flood Rear their o’er-shadowing heads, and at their feet Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat, Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood; And,

VI. Evening, as slow thy placid shades descend

EVENING, as slow thy placid shades descend, Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape still, The lonely battlement, and farthest hill And wood; I think of those that have no friend; Who now perhaps, by