She was a queen of noble Nature’s crowning,A smile of her’s was like an act of grace;She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning,Like daily beauties of the vulgar race;But if she smiled, a light was on her face,5A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beamOf peaceful radiance, silvering o’er the streamOf human thought with unabiding glory;Not quite a waking truth, not quite a dream,A visitation, bright and transitory.10But she is changed,—hath felt the touch of sorrow;No love hath she, no understanding friend;Oh grief! when heaven is forced of earth to borrowWhat the poor niggard earth has not to lend;But when the stalk is snapt, the rose must bend.15The tallest flower that skyward rears its head,Grows from the common ground, and there must shedIts delicate petals. Cruel fate, too surely,That they should find so base a bridal bed,Who lived in virgin pride, so sweet and purely!20She had a brother, and a tender father;And she was loved, but not as others are,From whom we ask return of love,—but ratherAs one might love a dream; a phantom-fairOf something exquisitely strange and rare,25Which all were glad to look on, men and maids,Yet no one claimed—as oft, in dewy gladesThe peering primrose, like a sudden gladness,Gleams on the soul, yet unregarded fades;—The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness.30’Tis vain to say—her worst of grief is onlyThe common lot, which all the world have known;To her ’tis more, because her heart is lonely,And yet she hath no strength to stand alone;—Once she had playmates, fancies of her own,35And she did love them. They are past away,As fairies vanish at the break of day;And like a spectre of an age departed,Or unsphered angel wofully astray,She glides along—the solitary-hearted.Hartley Coleridge.
She was a queen of noble Nature’s crowning,A smile of her’s was like an act of grace;She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning,Like daily beauties of the vulgar race;But if she smiled, a light was on her face,5A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beamOf peaceful radiance, silvering o’er the streamOf human thought with unabiding glory;Not quite a waking truth, not quite a dream,A visitation, bright and transitory.10But she is changed,—hath felt the touch of sorrow;No love hath she, no understanding friend;Oh grief! when heaven is forced of earth to borrowWhat the poor niggard earth has not to lend;But when the stalk is snapt, the rose must bend.15The tallest flower that skyward rears its head,Grows from the common ground, and there must shedIts delicate petals. Cruel fate, too surely,That they should find so base a bridal bed,Who lived in virgin pride, so sweet and purely!20She had a brother, and a tender father;And she was loved, but not as others are,From whom we ask return of love,—but ratherAs one might love a dream; a phantom-fairOf something exquisitely strange and rare,25Which all were glad to look on, men and maids,Yet no one claimed—as oft, in dewy gladesThe peering primrose, like a sudden gladness,Gleams on the soul, yet unregarded fades;—The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness.30’Tis vain to say—her worst of grief is onlyThe common lot, which all the world have known;To her ’tis more, because her heart is lonely,And yet she hath no strength to stand alone;—Once she had playmates, fancies of her own,35And she did love them. They are past away,As fairies vanish at the break of day;And like a spectre of an age departed,Or unsphered angel wofully astray,She glides along—the solitary-hearted.Hartley Coleridge.
She was a queen of noble Nature’s crowning,A smile of her’s was like an act of grace;She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning,Like daily beauties of the vulgar race;But if she smiled, a light was on her face,5A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beamOf peaceful radiance, silvering o’er the streamOf human thought with unabiding glory;Not quite a waking truth, not quite a dream,A visitation, bright and transitory.10
She was a queen of noble Nature’s crowning,
A smile of her’s was like an act of grace;
She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning,
Like daily beauties of the vulgar race;
But if she smiled, a light was on her face,5
A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beam
Of peaceful radiance, silvering o’er the stream
Of human thought with unabiding glory;
Not quite a waking truth, not quite a dream,
A visitation, bright and transitory.10
But she is changed,—hath felt the touch of sorrow;No love hath she, no understanding friend;Oh grief! when heaven is forced of earth to borrowWhat the poor niggard earth has not to lend;But when the stalk is snapt, the rose must bend.15The tallest flower that skyward rears its head,Grows from the common ground, and there must shedIts delicate petals. Cruel fate, too surely,That they should find so base a bridal bed,Who lived in virgin pride, so sweet and purely!20
But she is changed,—hath felt the touch of sorrow;
No love hath she, no understanding friend;
Oh grief! when heaven is forced of earth to borrow
What the poor niggard earth has not to lend;
But when the stalk is snapt, the rose must bend.15
The tallest flower that skyward rears its head,
Grows from the common ground, and there must shed
Its delicate petals. Cruel fate, too surely,
That they should find so base a bridal bed,
Who lived in virgin pride, so sweet and purely!20
She had a brother, and a tender father;And she was loved, but not as others are,From whom we ask return of love,—but ratherAs one might love a dream; a phantom-fairOf something exquisitely strange and rare,25Which all were glad to look on, men and maids,Yet no one claimed—as oft, in dewy gladesThe peering primrose, like a sudden gladness,Gleams on the soul, yet unregarded fades;—The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness.30
She had a brother, and a tender father;
And she was loved, but not as others are,
From whom we ask return of love,—but rather
As one might love a dream; a phantom-fair
Of something exquisitely strange and rare,25
Which all were glad to look on, men and maids,
Yet no one claimed—as oft, in dewy glades
The peering primrose, like a sudden gladness,
Gleams on the soul, yet unregarded fades;—
The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness.30
’Tis vain to say—her worst of grief is onlyThe common lot, which all the world have known;To her ’tis more, because her heart is lonely,And yet she hath no strength to stand alone;—Once she had playmates, fancies of her own,35And she did love them. They are past away,As fairies vanish at the break of day;And like a spectre of an age departed,Or unsphered angel wofully astray,She glides along—the solitary-hearted.Hartley Coleridge.
’Tis vain to say—her worst of grief is only
The common lot, which all the world have known;
To her ’tis more, because her heart is lonely,
And yet she hath no strength to stand alone;—
Once she had playmates, fancies of her own,35
And she did love them. They are past away,
As fairies vanish at the break of day;
And like a spectre of an age departed,
Or unsphered angel wofully astray,
She glides along—the solitary-hearted.
Hartley Coleridge.
Proud Maisie is in the wood,Walking so early;Sweet Robin sits on the bush,Singing so rarely.‘Tell me, thou bonny bird,5When shall I marry me?’—‘When six braw gentlemenKirkward shall carry ye.’‘Who makes the bridal bed,Birdie, say truly?’10—‘The gray-headed sextonThat delves the grave duly.‘The glowworm o’er grave and stoneShall light thee steady;The owl from the steeple sing,15Welcome, proud lady.’Sir Walter Scott.
Proud Maisie is in the wood,Walking so early;Sweet Robin sits on the bush,Singing so rarely.‘Tell me, thou bonny bird,5When shall I marry me?’—‘When six braw gentlemenKirkward shall carry ye.’‘Who makes the bridal bed,Birdie, say truly?’10—‘The gray-headed sextonThat delves the grave duly.‘The glowworm o’er grave and stoneShall light thee steady;The owl from the steeple sing,15Welcome, proud lady.’Sir Walter Scott.
Proud Maisie is in the wood,Walking so early;Sweet Robin sits on the bush,Singing so rarely.
Proud Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early;
Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
Singing so rarely.
‘Tell me, thou bonny bird,5When shall I marry me?’—‘When six braw gentlemenKirkward shall carry ye.’
‘Tell me, thou bonny bird,5
When shall I marry me?’
—‘When six braw gentlemen
Kirkward shall carry ye.’
‘Who makes the bridal bed,Birdie, say truly?’10—‘The gray-headed sextonThat delves the grave duly.
‘Who makes the bridal bed,
Birdie, say truly?’10
—‘The gray-headed sexton
That delves the grave duly.
‘The glowworm o’er grave and stoneShall light thee steady;The owl from the steeple sing,15Welcome, proud lady.’Sir Walter Scott.
‘The glowworm o’er grave and stone
Shall light thee steady;
The owl from the steeple sing,15
Welcome, proud lady.’
Sir Walter Scott.
An hour with thee!—When earliest dayDapples with gold the eastern gray,Oh, what can frame my mind to bearThe toil and turmoil, cark and care,New griefs, which coming hours unfold,5And sad remembrance of the old?—One hour with thee.One hour with thee!—When burning JuneWaves his red flag at pitch of noon;What shall repay the faithful swain10His labour on the sultry plain;And more than cave or sheltering bough,Cool feverish blood, and throbbing brow?—One hour with thee.One hour with thee!—When sun is set,15Oh, what can teach me to forgetThe thankless labours of the day,The hopes, the wishes, flung away,The increasing wants, and lessening gains,The master’s pride, who scorns my pains?—20One hour with thee.Sir Walter Scott.
An hour with thee!—When earliest dayDapples with gold the eastern gray,Oh, what can frame my mind to bearThe toil and turmoil, cark and care,New griefs, which coming hours unfold,5And sad remembrance of the old?—One hour with thee.One hour with thee!—When burning JuneWaves his red flag at pitch of noon;What shall repay the faithful swain10His labour on the sultry plain;And more than cave or sheltering bough,Cool feverish blood, and throbbing brow?—One hour with thee.One hour with thee!—When sun is set,15Oh, what can teach me to forgetThe thankless labours of the day,The hopes, the wishes, flung away,The increasing wants, and lessening gains,The master’s pride, who scorns my pains?—20One hour with thee.Sir Walter Scott.
An hour with thee!—When earliest dayDapples with gold the eastern gray,Oh, what can frame my mind to bearThe toil and turmoil, cark and care,New griefs, which coming hours unfold,5And sad remembrance of the old?—One hour with thee.
An hour with thee!—When earliest day
Dapples with gold the eastern gray,
Oh, what can frame my mind to bear
The toil and turmoil, cark and care,
New griefs, which coming hours unfold,5
And sad remembrance of the old?—
One hour with thee.
One hour with thee!—When burning JuneWaves his red flag at pitch of noon;What shall repay the faithful swain10His labour on the sultry plain;And more than cave or sheltering bough,Cool feverish blood, and throbbing brow?—One hour with thee.
One hour with thee!—When burning June
Waves his red flag at pitch of noon;
What shall repay the faithful swain10
His labour on the sultry plain;
And more than cave or sheltering bough,
Cool feverish blood, and throbbing brow?—
One hour with thee.
One hour with thee!—When sun is set,15Oh, what can teach me to forgetThe thankless labours of the day,The hopes, the wishes, flung away,The increasing wants, and lessening gains,The master’s pride, who scorns my pains?—20One hour with thee.Sir Walter Scott.
One hour with thee!—When sun is set,15
Oh, what can teach me to forget
The thankless labours of the day,
The hopes, the wishes, flung away,
The increasing wants, and lessening gains,
The master’s pride, who scorns my pains?—20
One hour with thee.
Sir Walter Scott.
The waters are flashing,The white hail is dashing,The lightnings are glancing,The hoar-spray is dancing—Away!5The whirlwind is rolling,The thunder is tolling,The forest is swinging,The minster bells ringing—Come away!10The earth is like ocean,Wreck-strewn and in motion:Bird, beast, man, and worm,Have crept out of the storm—Come away!15‘Our boat has one sail,And the helmsman is pale;—A bold pilot I trow,Who should follow us now,’Shouted He—20And She cried: ‘Ply the oar,Put off gaily from shore!’As she spoke bolts of death,Mixed with hail, specked their pathO’er the sea.25And from isle, tower, and rock,The blue beacon-cloud broke,Though dumb in the blast,The red cannon flashed fastFrom the lee.30‘And fear’st thou, and fear’st thou?And see’st thou, and hear’st thou?And drive we not freeO’er the terrible sea,I and thou?’35One boat-cloak did coverThe loved and the lover—Their blood beats one measure,They murmur proud pleasureSoft and low;—40While around the lashed ocean,Like mountains in motion,Is withdrawn and uplifted, Sunk,shattered, and shifted,To and fro. 45In the court of the fortress,Beside the pale portress,Like a bloodhound well beatenThe bridegroom stands, eatenBy shame:50On the topmost watch turret,As a death-boding spirit,Stands the gray tyrant father,To his voice the mad weatherSeems tame;55And with curses as wildAs e’er clung to child,He devotes to the blastThe best, loveliest, and last,Of his name!60Percy Bysshe Shelley.
The waters are flashing,The white hail is dashing,The lightnings are glancing,The hoar-spray is dancing—Away!5The whirlwind is rolling,The thunder is tolling,The forest is swinging,The minster bells ringing—Come away!10The earth is like ocean,Wreck-strewn and in motion:Bird, beast, man, and worm,Have crept out of the storm—Come away!15‘Our boat has one sail,And the helmsman is pale;—A bold pilot I trow,Who should follow us now,’Shouted He—20And She cried: ‘Ply the oar,Put off gaily from shore!’As she spoke bolts of death,Mixed with hail, specked their pathO’er the sea.25And from isle, tower, and rock,The blue beacon-cloud broke,Though dumb in the blast,The red cannon flashed fastFrom the lee.30‘And fear’st thou, and fear’st thou?And see’st thou, and hear’st thou?And drive we not freeO’er the terrible sea,I and thou?’35One boat-cloak did coverThe loved and the lover—Their blood beats one measure,They murmur proud pleasureSoft and low;—40While around the lashed ocean,Like mountains in motion,Is withdrawn and uplifted, Sunk,shattered, and shifted,To and fro. 45In the court of the fortress,Beside the pale portress,Like a bloodhound well beatenThe bridegroom stands, eatenBy shame:50On the topmost watch turret,As a death-boding spirit,Stands the gray tyrant father,To his voice the mad weatherSeems tame;55And with curses as wildAs e’er clung to child,He devotes to the blastThe best, loveliest, and last,Of his name!60Percy Bysshe Shelley.
The waters are flashing,The white hail is dashing,The lightnings are glancing,The hoar-spray is dancing—Away!5The whirlwind is rolling,The thunder is tolling,The forest is swinging,The minster bells ringing—Come away!10The earth is like ocean,Wreck-strewn and in motion:Bird, beast, man, and worm,Have crept out of the storm—Come away!15
The waters are flashing,
The white hail is dashing,
The lightnings are glancing,
The hoar-spray is dancing—
Away!5
The whirlwind is rolling,
The thunder is tolling,
The forest is swinging,
The minster bells ringing—
Come away!10
The earth is like ocean,
Wreck-strewn and in motion:
Bird, beast, man, and worm,
Have crept out of the storm—
Come away!15
‘Our boat has one sail,And the helmsman is pale;—A bold pilot I trow,Who should follow us now,’Shouted He—20And She cried: ‘Ply the oar,Put off gaily from shore!’As she spoke bolts of death,Mixed with hail, specked their pathO’er the sea.25And from isle, tower, and rock,The blue beacon-cloud broke,Though dumb in the blast,The red cannon flashed fastFrom the lee.30
‘Our boat has one sail,
And the helmsman is pale;—A bold pilot I trow,
Who should follow us now,’
Shouted He—20
And She cried: ‘Ply the oar,
Put off gaily from shore!’
As she spoke bolts of death,
Mixed with hail, specked their path
O’er the sea.25
And from isle, tower, and rock,
The blue beacon-cloud broke,
Though dumb in the blast,
The red cannon flashed fast
From the lee.30
‘And fear’st thou, and fear’st thou?And see’st thou, and hear’st thou?And drive we not freeO’er the terrible sea,I and thou?’35One boat-cloak did coverThe loved and the lover—Their blood beats one measure,They murmur proud pleasureSoft and low;—40While around the lashed ocean,Like mountains in motion,Is withdrawn and uplifted, Sunk,shattered, and shifted,To and fro. 45
‘And fear’st thou, and fear’st thou?
And see’st thou, and hear’st thou?
And drive we not free
O’er the terrible sea,
I and thou?’35
One boat-cloak did cover
The loved and the lover—
Their blood beats one measure,
They murmur proud pleasure
Soft and low;—40
While around the lashed ocean,
Like mountains in motion,
Is withdrawn and uplifted, Sunk,
shattered, and shifted,
To and fro. 45
In the court of the fortress,Beside the pale portress,Like a bloodhound well beatenThe bridegroom stands, eatenBy shame:50On the topmost watch turret,As a death-boding spirit,Stands the gray tyrant father,To his voice the mad weatherSeems tame;55And with curses as wildAs e’er clung to child,He devotes to the blastThe best, loveliest, and last,Of his name!60Percy Bysshe Shelley.
In the court of the fortress,
Beside the pale portress,
Like a bloodhound well beaten
The bridegroom stands, eaten
By shame:50
On the topmost watch turret,
As a death-boding spirit,
Stands the gray tyrant father,
To his voice the mad weather
Seems tame;55
And with curses as wild
As e’er clung to child,
He devotes to the blast
The best, loveliest, and last,
Of his name!60
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove;A maid whom there were none to praise,And very few to love.A violet by a mossy stone5Half-hidden from the eye!—Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.She lived unknown, and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;10But she is in her grave, and oh!The difference to me!William Wordsworth.
She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove;A maid whom there were none to praise,And very few to love.A violet by a mossy stone5Half-hidden from the eye!—Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.She lived unknown, and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;10But she is in her grave, and oh!The difference to me!William Wordsworth.
She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove;A maid whom there were none to praise,And very few to love.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove;
A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone5Half-hidden from the eye!—Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.
A violet by a mossy stone5
Half-hidden from the eye!
—Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;10But she is in her grave, and oh!The difference to me!William Wordsworth.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;10
But she is in her grave, and oh!
The difference to me!
William Wordsworth.
O Goddess, hear these tuneless numbers, wrungBy sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,And pardon that thy secrets should be sung,Even into thine own soft-conchèd ear:Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see5The wingèd Psyche with awakened eyes?I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly,And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by sideIn deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof10Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ranA brooklet, scarce espied:’Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed,Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;15Their arms embracèd, and their pinions too;Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu,As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber,And ready still past kisses to outnumberAt tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:20The wingèd Boy I knew;But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?His Psyche true!O latest-born and loveliest vision farOf all Olympus’ faded hierarchy!25Fairer than Phœbe’s sapphire-regioned star!Or Vesper, amorous glowworm of the sky;Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,Nor altar heaped with flowers;Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan30Upon the midnight hours;No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweetFrom chain-swung censer teeming;No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heatOf pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.35O brightest! though too late for antique vows,Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,When holy were the haunted forest boughs,Holy the air, the water, and the fire;Yet even in these days so far retired40From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,Fluttering among the faint Olympians,I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.So let me be thy choir, and make a moanUpon the midnight hours;45Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweetFrom swingèd censer teeming:Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heatOf pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane50In some untrodden region of my mind,Where branchèd thoughts, new-grown with pleasant pain,Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:Far, far around shall those dark-clustered treesFledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep;55And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep;And in the midst of this wide quietnessA rosy sanctuary will I dressWith the wreathed trellis of a working brain,60With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign,Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:And there shall be for thee all soft delightThat shadowy thought can win,65A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,To let the warm Love in!John Keats.
O Goddess, hear these tuneless numbers, wrungBy sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,And pardon that thy secrets should be sung,Even into thine own soft-conchèd ear:Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see5The wingèd Psyche with awakened eyes?I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly,And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by sideIn deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof10Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ranA brooklet, scarce espied:’Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed,Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;15Their arms embracèd, and their pinions too;Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu,As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber,And ready still past kisses to outnumberAt tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:20The wingèd Boy I knew;But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?His Psyche true!O latest-born and loveliest vision farOf all Olympus’ faded hierarchy!25Fairer than Phœbe’s sapphire-regioned star!Or Vesper, amorous glowworm of the sky;Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,Nor altar heaped with flowers;Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan30Upon the midnight hours;No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweetFrom chain-swung censer teeming;No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heatOf pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.35O brightest! though too late for antique vows,Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,When holy were the haunted forest boughs,Holy the air, the water, and the fire;Yet even in these days so far retired40From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,Fluttering among the faint Olympians,I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.So let me be thy choir, and make a moanUpon the midnight hours;45Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweetFrom swingèd censer teeming:Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heatOf pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane50In some untrodden region of my mind,Where branchèd thoughts, new-grown with pleasant pain,Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:Far, far around shall those dark-clustered treesFledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep;55And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep;And in the midst of this wide quietnessA rosy sanctuary will I dressWith the wreathed trellis of a working brain,60With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign,Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:And there shall be for thee all soft delightThat shadowy thought can win,65A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,To let the warm Love in!John Keats.
O Goddess, hear these tuneless numbers, wrungBy sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,And pardon that thy secrets should be sung,Even into thine own soft-conchèd ear:Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see5The wingèd Psyche with awakened eyes?I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly,And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by sideIn deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof10Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ranA brooklet, scarce espied:’Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed,Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;15Their arms embracèd, and their pinions too;Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu,As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber,And ready still past kisses to outnumberAt tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:20The wingèd Boy I knew;But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?His Psyche true!
O Goddess, hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung,
Even into thine own soft-conchèd ear:
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see5
The wingèd Psyche with awakened eyes?
I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly,
And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by side
In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof10
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
A brooklet, scarce espied:
’Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed,
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;15
Their arms embracèd, and their pinions too;
Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:20
The wingèd Boy I knew;
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
His Psyche true!
O latest-born and loveliest vision farOf all Olympus’ faded hierarchy!25Fairer than Phœbe’s sapphire-regioned star!Or Vesper, amorous glowworm of the sky;Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,Nor altar heaped with flowers;Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan30Upon the midnight hours;No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweetFrom chain-swung censer teeming;No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heatOf pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.35O brightest! though too late for antique vows,Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,When holy were the haunted forest boughs,Holy the air, the water, and the fire;Yet even in these days so far retired40From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,Fluttering among the faint Olympians,I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.So let me be thy choir, and make a moanUpon the midnight hours;45Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweetFrom swingèd censer teeming:Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heatOf pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.
O latest-born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus’ faded hierarchy!25
Fairer than Phœbe’s sapphire-regioned star!
Or Vesper, amorous glowworm of the sky;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
Nor altar heaped with flowers;
Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan30
Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
From chain-swung censer teeming;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.35
O brightest! though too late for antique vows,
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
Yet even in these days so far retired40
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours;45
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swingèd censer teeming:
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane50In some untrodden region of my mind,Where branchèd thoughts, new-grown with pleasant pain,Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:Far, far around shall those dark-clustered treesFledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep;55And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep;And in the midst of this wide quietnessA rosy sanctuary will I dressWith the wreathed trellis of a working brain,60With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign,Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:And there shall be for thee all soft delightThat shadowy thought can win,65A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,To let the warm Love in!John Keats.
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane50
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branchèd thoughts, new-grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-clustered trees
Fledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep;55
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreathed trellis of a working brain,60
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign,
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win,65
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
To let the warm Love in!
John Keats.
Ah Sunflower! weary of time,Who countest the steps of the sun;Seeking after that sweet golden climeWhere the traveller’s journey is done;Where the Youth pined away with desire,5And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow,Arise from their graves, and aspireWhere my Sunflower wishes to go.William Blake.
Ah Sunflower! weary of time,Who countest the steps of the sun;Seeking after that sweet golden climeWhere the traveller’s journey is done;Where the Youth pined away with desire,5And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow,Arise from their graves, and aspireWhere my Sunflower wishes to go.William Blake.
Ah Sunflower! weary of time,Who countest the steps of the sun;Seeking after that sweet golden climeWhere the traveller’s journey is done;Where the Youth pined away with desire,5And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow,Arise from their graves, and aspireWhere my Sunflower wishes to go.William Blake.
Ah Sunflower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller’s journey is done;
Where the Youth pined away with desire,5
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sunflower wishes to go.
William Blake.
Too true it is, my time of power was spentIn idly watering weeds of casual growth,That wasted energy to desperate slothDeclined, and fond self-seeking discontent;That the huge debt for all that Nature lent5I sought to cancel, and was nothing lothTo deem myself an outlaw, severed bothFrom duty and from hope,—yea, blindly sentWithout an errand, where I would to stray:—Too true it is, that, knowing now my state,10I weakly mourn the sin I ought to hate,Nor love the law I yet would fain obey:But true it is, above all law and fateIs Faith, abiding the appointed day.Hartley Coleridge.
Too true it is, my time of power was spentIn idly watering weeds of casual growth,That wasted energy to desperate slothDeclined, and fond self-seeking discontent;That the huge debt for all that Nature lent5I sought to cancel, and was nothing lothTo deem myself an outlaw, severed bothFrom duty and from hope,—yea, blindly sentWithout an errand, where I would to stray:—Too true it is, that, knowing now my state,10I weakly mourn the sin I ought to hate,Nor love the law I yet would fain obey:But true it is, above all law and fateIs Faith, abiding the appointed day.Hartley Coleridge.
Too true it is, my time of power was spentIn idly watering weeds of casual growth,That wasted energy to desperate slothDeclined, and fond self-seeking discontent;That the huge debt for all that Nature lent5I sought to cancel, and was nothing lothTo deem myself an outlaw, severed bothFrom duty and from hope,—yea, blindly sentWithout an errand, where I would to stray:—Too true it is, that, knowing now my state,10I weakly mourn the sin I ought to hate,Nor love the law I yet would fain obey:But true it is, above all law and fateIs Faith, abiding the appointed day.Hartley Coleridge.
Too true it is, my time of power was spent
In idly watering weeds of casual growth,
That wasted energy to desperate sloth
Declined, and fond self-seeking discontent;
That the huge debt for all that Nature lent5
I sought to cancel, and was nothing loth
To deem myself an outlaw, severed both
From duty and from hope,—yea, blindly sent
Without an errand, where I would to stray:—
Too true it is, that, knowing now my state,10
I weakly mourn the sin I ought to hate,
Nor love the law I yet would fain obey:
But true it is, above all law and fate
Is Faith, abiding the appointed day.
Hartley Coleridge.
Fair maid, had I not heard thy baby cries,Nor seen thy girlish, sweet vicissitude,Thy mazy motions, striving to elude,Yet wooing still a parents watchful eyes,Thy humours, many as the opal’s dyes,5And lovely all;—methinks thy scornful mood,And bearing high of stately womanhood,—Thy brow, where Beauty sits to tyrannizeO’er humble love, had made me sadly fear thee;For never sure was seen a royal bride,10Whose gentleness gave grace to so much pride—My very thoughts would tremble to be near thee:But when I see thee at thy father’s side,Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee.Hartley Coleridge.
Fair maid, had I not heard thy baby cries,Nor seen thy girlish, sweet vicissitude,Thy mazy motions, striving to elude,Yet wooing still a parents watchful eyes,Thy humours, many as the opal’s dyes,5And lovely all;—methinks thy scornful mood,And bearing high of stately womanhood,—Thy brow, where Beauty sits to tyrannizeO’er humble love, had made me sadly fear thee;For never sure was seen a royal bride,10Whose gentleness gave grace to so much pride—My very thoughts would tremble to be near thee:But when I see thee at thy father’s side,Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee.Hartley Coleridge.
Fair maid, had I not heard thy baby cries,Nor seen thy girlish, sweet vicissitude,Thy mazy motions, striving to elude,Yet wooing still a parents watchful eyes,Thy humours, many as the opal’s dyes,5And lovely all;—methinks thy scornful mood,And bearing high of stately womanhood,—Thy brow, where Beauty sits to tyrannizeO’er humble love, had made me sadly fear thee;For never sure was seen a royal bride,10Whose gentleness gave grace to so much pride—My very thoughts would tremble to be near thee:But when I see thee at thy father’s side,Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee.Hartley Coleridge.
Fair maid, had I not heard thy baby cries,
Nor seen thy girlish, sweet vicissitude,
Thy mazy motions, striving to elude,
Yet wooing still a parents watchful eyes,
Thy humours, many as the opal’s dyes,5
And lovely all;—methinks thy scornful mood,
And bearing high of stately womanhood,—
Thy brow, where Beauty sits to tyrannize
O’er humble love, had made me sadly fear thee;
For never sure was seen a royal bride,10
Whose gentleness gave grace to so much pride—
My very thoughts would tremble to be near thee:
But when I see thee at thy father’s side,
Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee.
Hartley Coleridge.
Green little vaulter on the sunny grass,Catching your heart up at the feel of June,Sole voice that’s heard amidst the lazy noon,When ev’n the bees lag at the summoning brass;And you, warm little housekeeper, who class5With those who think the candles come too soon,Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tuneNick the glad silent moments as they pass;O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,One to the fields, the other to the hearth,10Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strongAt your clear hearts, and both seem given to earthTo sing in thoughtful ears this natural song,In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth.Leigh Hunt.
Green little vaulter on the sunny grass,Catching your heart up at the feel of June,Sole voice that’s heard amidst the lazy noon,When ev’n the bees lag at the summoning brass;And you, warm little housekeeper, who class5With those who think the candles come too soon,Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tuneNick the glad silent moments as they pass;O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,One to the fields, the other to the hearth,10Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strongAt your clear hearts, and both seem given to earthTo sing in thoughtful ears this natural song,In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth.Leigh Hunt.
Green little vaulter on the sunny grass,Catching your heart up at the feel of June,Sole voice that’s heard amidst the lazy noon,When ev’n the bees lag at the summoning brass;And you, warm little housekeeper, who class5With those who think the candles come too soon,Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tuneNick the glad silent moments as they pass;O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,One to the fields, the other to the hearth,10Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strongAt your clear hearts, and both seem given to earthTo sing in thoughtful ears this natural song,In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth.Leigh Hunt.
Green little vaulter on the sunny grass,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that’s heard amidst the lazy noon,
When ev’n the bees lag at the summoning brass;
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class5
With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;
O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,
One to the fields, the other to the hearth,10
Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong
At your clear hearts, and both seem given to earth
To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song,
In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth.
Leigh Hunt.
O melancholy bird!—a winter’s dayThou standest by the margin of the pool,And, taught by God, dost thy whole being schoolTo patience, which all evil can allay;God has appointed thee the fish thy prey;5And given thyself a lesson to the foolUnthrifty, to submit to moral rule,And his unthinking course by thee to weigh.There need not schools, nor the professor’s chair,Though these be good, true wisdom to impart;10He, who has not enough for these to spareOf time or gold, may yet amend his heart,And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair;Nature is always wise in every part.Lord Thurlow.
O melancholy bird!—a winter’s dayThou standest by the margin of the pool,And, taught by God, dost thy whole being schoolTo patience, which all evil can allay;God has appointed thee the fish thy prey;5And given thyself a lesson to the foolUnthrifty, to submit to moral rule,And his unthinking course by thee to weigh.There need not schools, nor the professor’s chair,Though these be good, true wisdom to impart;10He, who has not enough for these to spareOf time or gold, may yet amend his heart,And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair;Nature is always wise in every part.Lord Thurlow.
O melancholy bird!—a winter’s dayThou standest by the margin of the pool,And, taught by God, dost thy whole being schoolTo patience, which all evil can allay;God has appointed thee the fish thy prey;5And given thyself a lesson to the foolUnthrifty, to submit to moral rule,And his unthinking course by thee to weigh.There need not schools, nor the professor’s chair,Though these be good, true wisdom to impart;10He, who has not enough for these to spareOf time or gold, may yet amend his heart,And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair;Nature is always wise in every part.Lord Thurlow.
O melancholy bird!—a winter’s day
Thou standest by the margin of the pool,
And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school
To patience, which all evil can allay;
God has appointed thee the fish thy prey;5
And given thyself a lesson to the fool
Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule,
And his unthinking course by thee to weigh.
There need not schools, nor the professor’s chair,
Though these be good, true wisdom to impart;10
He, who has not enough for these to spare
Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart,
And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair;
Nature is always wise in every part.
Lord Thurlow.
When in the woods I wander all alone,The woods that are my solace and delight,Which I more covet than a prince’s throne,My toil by day and canopy by night;(Light heart, light foot, light food, and slumber light,5These lights shall light me to old age’s gate,While monarchs, whom rebellious dreams affright,Heavy with fear, death’s fearful summons wait;)Whilst here I wander, pleased to be alone,Weighing in thought the world’s no-happiness,10I cannot choose but wonder at its moan,Since so plain joys the woody life can bless:Then live who may where honied words prevail,I with the deer, and with the nightingale!Lord Thurlow.
When in the woods I wander all alone,The woods that are my solace and delight,Which I more covet than a prince’s throne,My toil by day and canopy by night;(Light heart, light foot, light food, and slumber light,5These lights shall light me to old age’s gate,While monarchs, whom rebellious dreams affright,Heavy with fear, death’s fearful summons wait;)Whilst here I wander, pleased to be alone,Weighing in thought the world’s no-happiness,10I cannot choose but wonder at its moan,Since so plain joys the woody life can bless:Then live who may where honied words prevail,I with the deer, and with the nightingale!Lord Thurlow.
When in the woods I wander all alone,The woods that are my solace and delight,Which I more covet than a prince’s throne,My toil by day and canopy by night;(Light heart, light foot, light food, and slumber light,5These lights shall light me to old age’s gate,While monarchs, whom rebellious dreams affright,Heavy with fear, death’s fearful summons wait;)Whilst here I wander, pleased to be alone,Weighing in thought the world’s no-happiness,10I cannot choose but wonder at its moan,Since so plain joys the woody life can bless:Then live who may where honied words prevail,I with the deer, and with the nightingale!Lord Thurlow.
When in the woods I wander all alone,
The woods that are my solace and delight,
Which I more covet than a prince’s throne,
My toil by day and canopy by night;
(Light heart, light foot, light food, and slumber light,5
These lights shall light me to old age’s gate,
While monarchs, whom rebellious dreams affright,
Heavy with fear, death’s fearful summons wait;)
Whilst here I wander, pleased to be alone,
Weighing in thought the world’s no-happiness,10
I cannot choose but wonder at its moan,
Since so plain joys the woody life can bless:
Then live who may where honied words prevail,
I with the deer, and with the nightingale!
Lord Thurlow.
Again the violet of our early daysDrinks beauteous azure from the golden sun,And kindles into fragrance at his blaze;The streams, rejoiced that winter’s work is done,Talk of to-morrow’s cowslips, as they run.5Wild apple! thou art bursting into bloom;Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossomed thorn!Wake, buried lily! spirit, quit thy tomb;And thou, shade-loving hyacinth, be born.9Then haste, sweet rose! sweet woodbine, hymn the morn,Whose dew-drops shall illume with pearly lightEach grassy blade that thick embattled standsFrom sea to sea, while daisies infiniteUplift in praise their little glowing handsO’er every hill that under heaven expands.15Ebenezer Elliot.
Again the violet of our early daysDrinks beauteous azure from the golden sun,And kindles into fragrance at his blaze;The streams, rejoiced that winter’s work is done,Talk of to-morrow’s cowslips, as they run.5Wild apple! thou art bursting into bloom;Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossomed thorn!Wake, buried lily! spirit, quit thy tomb;And thou, shade-loving hyacinth, be born.9Then haste, sweet rose! sweet woodbine, hymn the morn,Whose dew-drops shall illume with pearly lightEach grassy blade that thick embattled standsFrom sea to sea, while daisies infiniteUplift in praise their little glowing handsO’er every hill that under heaven expands.15Ebenezer Elliot.
Again the violet of our early daysDrinks beauteous azure from the golden sun,And kindles into fragrance at his blaze;The streams, rejoiced that winter’s work is done,Talk of to-morrow’s cowslips, as they run.5Wild apple! thou art bursting into bloom;Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossomed thorn!Wake, buried lily! spirit, quit thy tomb;And thou, shade-loving hyacinth, be born.9Then haste, sweet rose! sweet woodbine, hymn the morn,Whose dew-drops shall illume with pearly lightEach grassy blade that thick embattled standsFrom sea to sea, while daisies infiniteUplift in praise their little glowing handsO’er every hill that under heaven expands.15Ebenezer Elliot.
Again the violet of our early days
Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun,
And kindles into fragrance at his blaze;
The streams, rejoiced that winter’s work is done,
Talk of to-morrow’s cowslips, as they run.5
Wild apple! thou art bursting into bloom;
Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossomed thorn!
Wake, buried lily! spirit, quit thy tomb;
And thou, shade-loving hyacinth, be born.9
Then haste, sweet rose! sweet woodbine, hymn the morn,
Whose dew-drops shall illume with pearly light
Each grassy blade that thick embattled stands
From sea to sea, while daisies infinite
Uplift in praise their little glowing hands
O’er every hill that under heaven expands.15
Ebenezer Elliot.
The poetry of earth is never dead:When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,And hide in cooling trees, a voice will runFrom hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;That is the grasshopper’s—he takes the lead5In summer luxury,—he has never doneWith his delights, for when tired out with fun,He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.The poetry of earth is ceasing never:On a lone winter evening, when the frost10Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrillsThe cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,The grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.John Keats.
The poetry of earth is never dead:When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,And hide in cooling trees, a voice will runFrom hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;That is the grasshopper’s—he takes the lead5In summer luxury,—he has never doneWith his delights, for when tired out with fun,He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.The poetry of earth is ceasing never:On a lone winter evening, when the frost10Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrillsThe cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,The grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.John Keats.
The poetry of earth is never dead:When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,And hide in cooling trees, a voice will runFrom hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;That is the grasshopper’s—he takes the lead5In summer luxury,—he has never doneWith his delights, for when tired out with fun,He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.The poetry of earth is ceasing never:On a lone winter evening, when the frost10Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrillsThe cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,The grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.John Keats.
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the grasshopper’s—he takes the lead5
In summer luxury,—he has never done
With his delights, for when tired out with fun,
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost10
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.
John Keats.
Lady, I bid thee to a sunny dome,Ringing with echoes of Italian song:Henceforth to thee these magic halls belong,And all the pleasant place is like a home.Hark, on the right with full piano tone5Old Dante’s voice encircles all the air:Hark yet again, like flute-tones mingling rare,Comes the keen sweetness of Petrarca’s moan.Pass thou the lintel freely; without fearFeast on the music. I do better know thee,10Than to suspect this pleasure thou dost owe meWill wrong thy gentle spirit, or make less dearThat element whence thou must draw thy life—An English maiden, and an English wife.Arthur Henry Hallam.
Lady, I bid thee to a sunny dome,Ringing with echoes of Italian song:Henceforth to thee these magic halls belong,And all the pleasant place is like a home.Hark, on the right with full piano tone5Old Dante’s voice encircles all the air:Hark yet again, like flute-tones mingling rare,Comes the keen sweetness of Petrarca’s moan.Pass thou the lintel freely; without fearFeast on the music. I do better know thee,10Than to suspect this pleasure thou dost owe meWill wrong thy gentle spirit, or make less dearThat element whence thou must draw thy life—An English maiden, and an English wife.Arthur Henry Hallam.
Lady, I bid thee to a sunny dome,Ringing with echoes of Italian song:Henceforth to thee these magic halls belong,And all the pleasant place is like a home.Hark, on the right with full piano tone5Old Dante’s voice encircles all the air:Hark yet again, like flute-tones mingling rare,Comes the keen sweetness of Petrarca’s moan.Pass thou the lintel freely; without fearFeast on the music. I do better know thee,10Than to suspect this pleasure thou dost owe meWill wrong thy gentle spirit, or make less dearThat element whence thou must draw thy life—An English maiden, and an English wife.Arthur Henry Hallam.
Lady, I bid thee to a sunny dome,
Ringing with echoes of Italian song:
Henceforth to thee these magic halls belong,
And all the pleasant place is like a home.
Hark, on the right with full piano tone5
Old Dante’s voice encircles all the air:
Hark yet again, like flute-tones mingling rare,
Comes the keen sweetness of Petrarca’s moan.
Pass thou the lintel freely; without fear
Feast on the music. I do better know thee,10
Than to suspect this pleasure thou dost owe me
Will wrong thy gentle spirit, or make less dear
That element whence thou must draw thy life—
An English maiden, and an English wife.
Arthur Henry Hallam.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,5That host with their banners at sunset were seen:Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,That host on the morrow lay withered and strown:For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;10And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,15And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf,And there lay the rider distorted and pale,With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown:20And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!Lord Byron.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,5That host with their banners at sunset were seen:Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,That host on the morrow lay withered and strown:For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;10And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,15And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf,And there lay the rider distorted and pale,With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown:20And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!Lord Byron.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,5That host with their banners at sunset were seen:Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,That host on the morrow lay withered and strown:
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,5
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown:
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;10And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;10
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,15And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf,
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,15
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf,
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown:20
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown:20
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!Lord Byron.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Lord Byron.
Is this the spot where Rome’s eternal foeInto his snares the mighty legions drew,Whence from the carnage, spiritless and few,A remnant scarcely reached her gates of woe?Is this the stream, thus gliding soft and slow,5That, from the gushing wounds of thousands, grewSo fierce a flood, that waves of crimson hueRushed on the bosom of the lake below?The mountains that gave back the battle-cryAre silent now;—perchance yon hillocks green10Mark where the bones of those old warriors lie!Heaven never gladdened a more peaceful scene;Never left softer breeze a fairer skyTo sport upon thy waters, Thrasymene.Charles Strong.
Is this the spot where Rome’s eternal foeInto his snares the mighty legions drew,Whence from the carnage, spiritless and few,A remnant scarcely reached her gates of woe?Is this the stream, thus gliding soft and slow,5That, from the gushing wounds of thousands, grewSo fierce a flood, that waves of crimson hueRushed on the bosom of the lake below?The mountains that gave back the battle-cryAre silent now;—perchance yon hillocks green10Mark where the bones of those old warriors lie!Heaven never gladdened a more peaceful scene;Never left softer breeze a fairer skyTo sport upon thy waters, Thrasymene.Charles Strong.
Is this the spot where Rome’s eternal foeInto his snares the mighty legions drew,Whence from the carnage, spiritless and few,A remnant scarcely reached her gates of woe?Is this the stream, thus gliding soft and slow,5That, from the gushing wounds of thousands, grewSo fierce a flood, that waves of crimson hueRushed on the bosom of the lake below?The mountains that gave back the battle-cryAre silent now;—perchance yon hillocks green10Mark where the bones of those old warriors lie!Heaven never gladdened a more peaceful scene;Never left softer breeze a fairer skyTo sport upon thy waters, Thrasymene.Charles Strong.
Is this the spot where Rome’s eternal foe
Into his snares the mighty legions drew,
Whence from the carnage, spiritless and few,
A remnant scarcely reached her gates of woe?
Is this the stream, thus gliding soft and slow,5
That, from the gushing wounds of thousands, grew
So fierce a flood, that waves of crimson hue
Rushed on the bosom of the lake below?
The mountains that gave back the battle-cry
Are silent now;—perchance yon hillocks green10
Mark where the bones of those old warriors lie!
Heaven never gladdened a more peaceful scene;
Never left softer breeze a fairer sky
To sport upon thy waters, Thrasymene.
Charles Strong.
BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON, SERJEANT IN IRETON’S REGIMENT.
Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North,With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?Oh evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,5And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod;For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God.It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,9That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine,And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair,And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,The General rode along us to form us to the fight,When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout,15Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant’s right.And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,The cry of battle rises along their charging line!For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws!For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!20The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall;They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks;For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone!25Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast,O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!Stand back to back, in God’s name, and fight it to the last.Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground:Hark! hark!—What means the trampling of horsemen on our rear?30Whose banner do I see, boys? ’Tis he, thank God, ’tis he, boys.Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here.Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes,Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst,35And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hideTheir coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar:And he—he turns, he flies:—shame on those cruel eyesThat bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war.40Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain,First give another stab to make your search secure,Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets,The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold,45When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day;And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks,Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate,And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades,50Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths,Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?Down, down, for ever down with the Mitre and the Crown,With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the Pope;There is woe in Oxford Halls; there is wail in Durham’s Stalls:55The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope.And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children’s ills,And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England’s sword;And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hearWhat the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word.60Lord Macaulay.
Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North,With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?Oh evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,5And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod;For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God.It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,9That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine,And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair,And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,The General rode along us to form us to the fight,When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout,15Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant’s right.And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,The cry of battle rises along their charging line!For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws!For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!20The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall;They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks;For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone!25Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast,O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!Stand back to back, in God’s name, and fight it to the last.Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground:Hark! hark!—What means the trampling of horsemen on our rear?30Whose banner do I see, boys? ’Tis he, thank God, ’tis he, boys.Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here.Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes,Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst,35And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hideTheir coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar:And he—he turns, he flies:—shame on those cruel eyesThat bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war.40Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain,First give another stab to make your search secure,Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets,The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold,45When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day;And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks,Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate,And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades,50Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths,Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?Down, down, for ever down with the Mitre and the Crown,With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the Pope;There is woe in Oxford Halls; there is wail in Durham’s Stalls:55The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope.And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children’s ills,And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England’s sword;And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hearWhat the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word.60Lord Macaulay.
Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North,With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?
Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North,
With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?
Oh evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,5And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod;For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God.
Oh evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,5
And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod;
For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,
Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God.
It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,9That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine,And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair,And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.
It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,9
That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine,
And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair,
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.
Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,The General rode along us to form us to the fight,When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout,15Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant’s right.
Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,
The General rode along us to form us to the fight,
When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout,15
Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant’s right.
And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,The cry of battle rises along their charging line!For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws!For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!20
And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,
The cry of battle rises along their charging line!
For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws!
For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!20
The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall;They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks;For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.
The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,
His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall;
They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks;
For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.
They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone!25Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast,O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!Stand back to back, in God’s name, and fight it to the last.
They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone!25
Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast,
O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!
Stand back to back, in God’s name, and fight it to the last.
Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground:Hark! hark!—What means the trampling of horsemen on our rear?30Whose banner do I see, boys? ’Tis he, thank God, ’tis he, boys.Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here.
Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground:
Hark! hark!—What means the trampling of horsemen on our rear?30
Whose banner do I see, boys? ’Tis he, thank God, ’tis he, boys.
Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here.
Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes,Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst,35And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.
Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes,
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst,35
And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.
Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hideTheir coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar:And he—he turns, he flies:—shame on those cruel eyesThat bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war.40
Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar:
And he—he turns, he flies:—shame on those cruel eyes
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war.40
Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain,First give another stab to make your search secure,Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets,The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.
Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain,
First give another stab to make your search secure,
Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets,
The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.
Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold,45When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day;And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks,Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.
Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold,45
When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day;
And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks,
Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.
Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate,And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades,50Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths,Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?
Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate,
And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades,50
Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths,
Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?
Down, down, for ever down with the Mitre and the Crown,With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the Pope;There is woe in Oxford Halls; there is wail in Durham’s Stalls:55The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope.
Down, down, for ever down with the Mitre and the Crown,
With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the Pope;
There is woe in Oxford Halls; there is wail in Durham’s Stalls:55
The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope.
And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children’s ills,And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England’s sword;And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hearWhat the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word.60Lord Macaulay.
And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children’s ills,
And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England’s sword;
And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear
What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word.60
Lord Macaulay.
While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,My true love has mounted his steed and away,Over hill, over valley, o’er dale, and o’er down;Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!He has doffed the silk doublet the breast-plate to bear,5He has placed the steel-cap o’er his long-flowing hair,From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,—Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws,Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause;10His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,—God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown!They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and allThe roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;But tell these bold traitors of London’s proud town,15That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.There’s Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;There’s Erin’s high Ormond and Scotland’s Montrose!Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown,With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown?20Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!Be his banner unconquered, resistless his spear,Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drownIn a pledge to Fair England, her Church, and her Crown.Sir Walter Scott.
While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,My true love has mounted his steed and away,Over hill, over valley, o’er dale, and o’er down;Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!He has doffed the silk doublet the breast-plate to bear,5He has placed the steel-cap o’er his long-flowing hair,From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,—Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws,Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause;10His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,—God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown!They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and allThe roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;But tell these bold traitors of London’s proud town,15That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.There’s Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;There’s Erin’s high Ormond and Scotland’s Montrose!Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown,With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown?20Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!Be his banner unconquered, resistless his spear,Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drownIn a pledge to Fair England, her Church, and her Crown.Sir Walter Scott.
While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,My true love has mounted his steed and away,Over hill, over valley, o’er dale, and o’er down;Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!
While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,
My true love has mounted his steed and away,
Over hill, over valley, o’er dale, and o’er down;
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!
He has doffed the silk doublet the breast-plate to bear,5He has placed the steel-cap o’er his long-flowing hair,From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,—Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!
He has doffed the silk doublet the breast-plate to bear,5
He has placed the steel-cap o’er his long-flowing hair,
From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,—
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!
For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws,Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause;10His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,—God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown!
For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws,
Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause;10
His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,—
God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown!
They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and allThe roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;But tell these bold traitors of London’s proud town,15That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.
They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all
The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;
But tell these bold traitors of London’s proud town,15
That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.
There’s Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;There’s Erin’s high Ormond and Scotland’s Montrose!Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown,With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown?20
There’s Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;
There’s Erin’s high Ormond and Scotland’s Montrose!
Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown,
With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown?20
Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!Be his banner unconquered, resistless his spear,Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drownIn a pledge to Fair England, her Church, and her Crown.Sir Walter Scott.
Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!
Be his banner unconquered, resistless his spear,
Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown
In a pledge to Fair England, her Church, and her Crown.
Sir Walter Scott.
Of Nelson and the NorthSing the glorious day’s renown,When to battle fierce came forthAll the might of Denmark’s crown,And her arms along the deep proudly shone;5By each gun the lighted brandIn a bold determined hand,And the Prince of all the landLed them on.Like leviathans afloat10Lay their bulwarks on the brine,While the sign of battle flewOn the lofty British line:It was ten of April morn by the chime;As they drifted on their path,15There was silence deep as death,And the boldest held his breathFor a time.But the might of England flushedTo anticipate the scene;20And her van the fleeter rushedO’er the deadly space between.‘Hearts of oak!’ our captains cried; when each gunFrom its adamantine lipsSpread a death-shade round the ships,25Like the hurricane eclipseOf the sun.Again! again! again!And the havoc did not slack,Till a feeble cheer the Dane30To our cheering sent us back;—Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—Then ceased—and all is wail,As they strike the shattered sail,Or, in conflagration pale,35Light the gloom.Out spoke the victor then,As he hailed them o’er the wave:‘Ye are brothers! ye are men!And we conquer but to save:40So peace instead of death let us bring;But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,With the crews, at England’s feet,And make submission meetTo our King.’45Then Denmark blessed our chiefThat he gave her wounds repose;And the sounds of joy and griefFrom her people wildly rose,As death withdrew his shades from the day;50While the sun looked smiling brightO’er a wide and woeful sight,Where the fires of funeral lightDied away.Now joy, Old England, raise55For the tidings of thy might,By the festal cities’ blaze,Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,Let us think of them that sleep60Full many a fathom deep,By thy wild and stormy steep,Elsinore!Brave hearts! to Britain’s prideOnce so faithful and so true,65On the deck of fame that died,With the gallant good Riou:Soft sigh the winds of heaven o’er their grave!While the billow mournful rolls,And the mermaid’s song condoles,70Singing glory to the soulsOf the brave!Thomas Campbell.
Of Nelson and the NorthSing the glorious day’s renown,When to battle fierce came forthAll the might of Denmark’s crown,And her arms along the deep proudly shone;5By each gun the lighted brandIn a bold determined hand,And the Prince of all the landLed them on.Like leviathans afloat10Lay their bulwarks on the brine,While the sign of battle flewOn the lofty British line:It was ten of April morn by the chime;As they drifted on their path,15There was silence deep as death,And the boldest held his breathFor a time.But the might of England flushedTo anticipate the scene;20And her van the fleeter rushedO’er the deadly space between.‘Hearts of oak!’ our captains cried; when each gunFrom its adamantine lipsSpread a death-shade round the ships,25Like the hurricane eclipseOf the sun.Again! again! again!And the havoc did not slack,Till a feeble cheer the Dane30To our cheering sent us back;—Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—Then ceased—and all is wail,As they strike the shattered sail,Or, in conflagration pale,35Light the gloom.Out spoke the victor then,As he hailed them o’er the wave:‘Ye are brothers! ye are men!And we conquer but to save:40So peace instead of death let us bring;But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,With the crews, at England’s feet,And make submission meetTo our King.’45Then Denmark blessed our chiefThat he gave her wounds repose;And the sounds of joy and griefFrom her people wildly rose,As death withdrew his shades from the day;50While the sun looked smiling brightO’er a wide and woeful sight,Where the fires of funeral lightDied away.Now joy, Old England, raise55For the tidings of thy might,By the festal cities’ blaze,Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,Let us think of them that sleep60Full many a fathom deep,By thy wild and stormy steep,Elsinore!Brave hearts! to Britain’s prideOnce so faithful and so true,65On the deck of fame that died,With the gallant good Riou:Soft sigh the winds of heaven o’er their grave!While the billow mournful rolls,And the mermaid’s song condoles,70Singing glory to the soulsOf the brave!Thomas Campbell.
Of Nelson and the NorthSing the glorious day’s renown,When to battle fierce came forthAll the might of Denmark’s crown,And her arms along the deep proudly shone;5By each gun the lighted brandIn a bold determined hand,And the Prince of all the landLed them on.
Of Nelson and the North
Sing the glorious day’s renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark’s crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;5
By each gun the lighted brand
In a bold determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.
Like leviathans afloat10Lay their bulwarks on the brine,While the sign of battle flewOn the lofty British line:It was ten of April morn by the chime;As they drifted on their path,15There was silence deep as death,And the boldest held his breathFor a time.
Like leviathans afloat10
Lay their bulwarks on the brine,
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line:
It was ten of April morn by the chime;
As they drifted on their path,15
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.
But the might of England flushedTo anticipate the scene;20And her van the fleeter rushedO’er the deadly space between.‘Hearts of oak!’ our captains cried; when each gunFrom its adamantine lipsSpread a death-shade round the ships,25Like the hurricane eclipseOf the sun.
But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene;20
And her van the fleeter rushed
O’er the deadly space between.
‘Hearts of oak!’ our captains cried; when each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,25
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.
Again! again! again!And the havoc did not slack,Till a feeble cheer the Dane30To our cheering sent us back;—Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—Then ceased—and all is wail,As they strike the shattered sail,Or, in conflagration pale,35Light the gloom.
Again! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane30
To our cheering sent us back;—
Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—
Then ceased—and all is wail,
As they strike the shattered sail,
Or, in conflagration pale,35
Light the gloom.
Out spoke the victor then,As he hailed them o’er the wave:‘Ye are brothers! ye are men!And we conquer but to save:40So peace instead of death let us bring;But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,With the crews, at England’s feet,And make submission meetTo our King.’45
Out spoke the victor then,
As he hailed them o’er the wave:
‘Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save:40
So peace instead of death let us bring;
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England’s feet,
And make submission meet
To our King.’45
Then Denmark blessed our chiefThat he gave her wounds repose;And the sounds of joy and griefFrom her people wildly rose,As death withdrew his shades from the day;50While the sun looked smiling brightO’er a wide and woeful sight,Where the fires of funeral lightDied away.
Then Denmark blessed our chief
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,
As death withdrew his shades from the day;50
While the sun looked smiling bright
O’er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.
Now joy, Old England, raise55For the tidings of thy might,By the festal cities’ blaze,Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,Let us think of them that sleep60Full many a fathom deep,By thy wild and stormy steep,Elsinore!
Now joy, Old England, raise55
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities’ blaze,
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep60
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!
Brave hearts! to Britain’s prideOnce so faithful and so true,65On the deck of fame that died,With the gallant good Riou:Soft sigh the winds of heaven o’er their grave!While the billow mournful rolls,And the mermaid’s song condoles,70Singing glory to the soulsOf the brave!Thomas Campbell.
Brave hearts! to Britain’s pride
Once so faithful and so true,65
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant good Riou:
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o’er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid’s song condoles,70
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!
Thomas Campbell.
On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.But Linden saw another sight,5When the drum beat at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,Each horseman drew his battle-blade,10And furious every charger neighedTo join the dreadful revelry.Then shook the hills, with thunder riven;Then rushed the steed, to battle driven;And louder than the bolts of Heaven15Far flashed the red artillery.But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden’s hills of stainèd snow,And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.20’Tis morn; but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank and fiery HunShout in their sulphurous canopy.The combat deepens. On, ye brave,25Who rush to glory, or the grave!Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry!Few, few shall part, where many meet;The snow shall be their winding-sheet;30And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier’s sepulchre.Thomas Campbell.
On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.But Linden saw another sight,5When the drum beat at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,Each horseman drew his battle-blade,10And furious every charger neighedTo join the dreadful revelry.Then shook the hills, with thunder riven;Then rushed the steed, to battle driven;And louder than the bolts of Heaven15Far flashed the red artillery.But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden’s hills of stainèd snow,And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.20’Tis morn; but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank and fiery HunShout in their sulphurous canopy.The combat deepens. On, ye brave,25Who rush to glory, or the grave!Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry!Few, few shall part, where many meet;The snow shall be their winding-sheet;30And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier’s sepulchre.Thomas Campbell.
On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,5When the drum beat at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.
But Linden saw another sight,5
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,Each horseman drew his battle-blade,10And furious every charger neighedTo join the dreadful revelry.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,10
And furious every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills, with thunder riven;Then rushed the steed, to battle driven;And louder than the bolts of Heaven15Far flashed the red artillery.
Then shook the hills, with thunder riven;
Then rushed the steed, to battle driven;
And louder than the bolts of Heaven15
Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden’s hills of stainèd snow,And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.20
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden’s hills of stainèd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.20
’Tis morn; but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank and fiery HunShout in their sulphurous canopy.
’Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,25Who rush to glory, or the grave!Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry!
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,25
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part, where many meet;The snow shall be their winding-sheet;30And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier’s sepulchre.Thomas Campbell.
Few, few shall part, where many meet;
The snow shall be their winding-sheet;30
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre.
Thomas Campbell.
Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee,And was the safeguard of the West; the worthOf Venice did not fall below her birth,Venice, the eldest child of liberty.She was a maiden City, bright and free;5No guile seduced, no force could violate;And when she took unto herself a mate,She must espouse the everlasting Sea.And what if she had seen those glories fade,Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,—10Yet shall some tribute of regret be paidWhen her long life hath reached its final day:Men are we, and must grieve when even the shadeOf that which once was great has passed away.William Wordsworth.
Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee,And was the safeguard of the West; the worthOf Venice did not fall below her birth,Venice, the eldest child of liberty.She was a maiden City, bright and free;5No guile seduced, no force could violate;And when she took unto herself a mate,She must espouse the everlasting Sea.And what if she had seen those glories fade,Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,—10Yet shall some tribute of regret be paidWhen her long life hath reached its final day:Men are we, and must grieve when even the shadeOf that which once was great has passed away.William Wordsworth.
Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee,And was the safeguard of the West; the worthOf Venice did not fall below her birth,Venice, the eldest child of liberty.She was a maiden City, bright and free;5No guile seduced, no force could violate;And when she took unto herself a mate,She must espouse the everlasting Sea.And what if she had seen those glories fade,Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,—10Yet shall some tribute of regret be paidWhen her long life hath reached its final day:Men are we, and must grieve when even the shadeOf that which once was great has passed away.William Wordsworth.
Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee,
And was the safeguard of the West; the worth
Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
Venice, the eldest child of liberty.
She was a maiden City, bright and free;5
No guile seduced, no force could violate;
And when she took unto herself a mate,
She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
And what if she had seen those glories fade,
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,—10
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
When her long life hath reached its final day:
Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
Of that which once was great has passed away.
William Wordsworth.
Fair Star of Evening, Splendour of the West,Star of my country!—on the horizon’s brinkThou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sinkOn England’s bosom; yet well pleased to rest,Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest,5Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,Should’st be my Country’s emblem; and should’st wink,Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drestIn thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spotBeneath thee, that is England; there it lies.10Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,One life, one glory! I with many a fearFor my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,Among men who do not love her, linger here.William Wordsworth.
Fair Star of Evening, Splendour of the West,Star of my country!—on the horizon’s brinkThou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sinkOn England’s bosom; yet well pleased to rest,Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest,5Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,Should’st be my Country’s emblem; and should’st wink,Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drestIn thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spotBeneath thee, that is England; there it lies.10Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,One life, one glory! I with many a fearFor my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,Among men who do not love her, linger here.William Wordsworth.
Fair Star of Evening, Splendour of the West,Star of my country!—on the horizon’s brinkThou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sinkOn England’s bosom; yet well pleased to rest,Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest,5Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,Should’st be my Country’s emblem; and should’st wink,Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drestIn thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spotBeneath thee, that is England; there it lies.10Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,One life, one glory! I with many a fearFor my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,Among men who do not love her, linger here.William Wordsworth.
Fair Star of Evening, Splendour of the West,
Star of my country!—on the horizon’s brink
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink
On England’s bosom; yet well pleased to rest,
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest,5
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,
Should’st be my Country’s emblem; and should’st wink,
Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, that is England; there it lies.10
Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,
One life, one glory! I with many a fear
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,
Among men who do not love her, linger here.
William Wordsworth.