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