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
XII. Written at a Convent
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