Imatges de pÓgina


As one who, long by wasting sickness worn, Weary has watch'd the ling'ring night, and heard

Heartless the carol of the matin bird Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed;

He the green slope and level meadow views, Delightful bathed with slow-ascending dews; Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's head

In varying forms fantastic wander white;

Or turns his ear to every random song, Heard the green river's winding marge along, The whilst each sense is steep'd in still delight.

With such delight, o'er all my heart I feel, Sweet Hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal!

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.

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Their brow, besprent with thin hairs, white

as snow,

They lift, majestic yet; as they would scorn This short-lived scene of vanity and woe; Whilst on their sad looks smilingly they bear The trace of creeping age, and the dim hue of care!

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.

1257.-MAY, 1793.

How shall I meet thee, Summer, wont to fill My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide

First came, and on each coomb's romantic side

Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow bill? Fresh flow'rs shall fringe the wild brink of the stream,

As with the songs of joyance and of hope The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and on the slope

The poplars sparkle in the transient beam; The shrubs and laurels which I loved to tend, Thinking their May-tide fragrance might delight,

With many a peaceful charm, thee, my best friend,

Shall put forth their green shoot, and cheer the sight!

But I shall mark their hues with sick'ning eyes,

And weep for her who in the cold grave lies! W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.


I never hear the sound of thy glad bells, Oxford and chime harmonious, but I say (Sighing to think how time has worn away), "Some spirit speaks in the sweet tone that swells,

Heard after years of absence, from the vale Where Cherwell winds." Most true it speaks the tale

Of days departed, and its voice recalls
Hours of delight and hope in the gay tide

Of life, and many friends now scatter'd wide By many fates.-Peace be within thy walls! I have scarce heart to visit thee; but yet, Denied the joys sought in thy shades,denied Each better hope, since my poor ***** died, What I have owed to thee, my heart can ne'er forget!

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.


Thou camest with kind looks, when on the brink


Almost of death I strove, and with mild voice

Didst soothe me, bidding my poor heart rejoice,

Though smitten sore: Oh, I did little think That thou, my friend, would'st the first victim


To the stern King of Terrors! thou didst fly, By pity prompted, at the poor man's cry; And soon thyself wert stretch'd beneath the pall,

Livid Infection's prey. The deep distress

Of her, who best thy inmost bosom knew, To whom thy faith was vow'd, thy soul was true,

What pow'rs of falt'ring language shall express?

As friendship bids, I feebly breathe my own, And sorrowing say, "Pure spirit, thou art gone!"

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.


I turn these leaves with thronging thoughts, and say,

"Alas! how many friends of youth are dead, How many visions of fair hope have fled, Since first, my Muse, we met: "-So speeds away

Life, and its shadows; yet we sit and sing, Stretch'd in the noontide bower, as if the day Declined not, and we yet might trill our lay Beneath the pleasant morning's purple wing That fans us, while aloft the gay clouds shine!

Oh, ere the coming of the long cold night, Religion, may we bless thy purer light, That still shall warm us, when the tints decline

O'er earth's dim hemisphere, and sad we gaze On the vain visions of our passing days!

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.


Oh Lord-in sickness and in health, To every lot resign'd,

Grant me, before all worldly wealth, A meek and thankful mind.

As life, thy upland path we tread,
And often pause in pain,

To think of friends and parents dead,
Oh! let us not complain.

The Lord may give or take away,
But nought our faith can move,
While we to Heaven can look, and say,
"Our Father lives above."

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762 Died 1850.


When from my humble bed I rise,
And see the morning Sun;
Who, glorious in the eastern skies,
His journey has begun;

I think of that Almighty power,
Which call'd this orb from night;
I think how many at this hour
Rejoice beneath its light.

And then I pray, in every land,
Where'er this light is shed,
That all who live may bless the hand
Which gives their daily bread.

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.


As homeward by the evening star
I pass along the plain,

I see the taper's light afar
Shine through our cottage-pane.

My brothers and my sisters dear,
The child upon the knee,
Spring, when my hastening steps they hear,
And smile to welcome me.

And when the fire is growing dim,
And mother's labours cease,

I fold my hands, and say my hymn,
And "lay me down in peace."

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.


The bee is humming in the sun,

The yellow cowslip springs,
And hark! from yonder woodland's side,
Again the cuckoo sings!
"Cuckoo-Cuckoo!" no other note,

She sings from day to day;
But I, though a poor cottage-girl,
Can work, and read, and pray.
And whilst in knowledge I rejoice,
Which heavenly truth displays,
Oh! let me still employ my voice,
In my Redeemer's praise.

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.


The sheep were in the fold at night;
And now, a new-born lamb
Totters and trembles in the light,
Or bleats beside its dam.

How anxiously the mother tries,
With every tender care,

To screen it from inclement skies,
And the cold morning air!

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1267.-BIRD'S NEST.

In yonder brake there is a nest,

But come not, George, too nigh,
Lest the poor mother frighten'd thence,
Should leave her young, and fly.

Think with what pain, through many a day,
Soft moss and straw she brought;
And let our own dear mother's care
Be present to our thought.

And think how must her heart deplore,
And droop with grief and pain,

If those she rear'd, and nursed, and loved,
She ne'er should see again.

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.


Oh! what is this which shines so bright,
And in the lonely place

Hangs out his small green lamp at night,
The dewy bank to grace?

It is a glow-worm-Still and pale
It shines the whole night long,
When only stars, Oh! nightingale,
Seem list'ning to thy song.

And so, amid the world's cold night,
Through good report or ill,
Shines out the humble Christian's light,
As lonely and as still.

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.

1268.-WINTER.-REDBREAST. Poor Robin sits and sings alone, When showers of driving sleet, By the cold winds of winter blown, The cottage casement beat. Come, let us share our chimney-nook, And dry his dripping wing; See, little Mary shuts her book,

And cries, "Poor Robin, sing."


The stars are shining over head,
In the clear frosty night;

So will they shine when we are dead,
As countless and as bright.

For brief the time and short the space
That e'en the proudest have,
Ere they conclude their various race
In silence and the grave.


But the pure soul from dust shall rise,
By our great Saviour's aid,
When the last trump shall rend the skies,
And all the stars shall fade.

W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850.

Your tender prime must bleed Ere you are sweet; but, freed From life, you then are prized; thus prized are poets too.

W. S. Landor.-Born 1775, Died 1864.


I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone,

I feel I am alone.

I check'd him while he spoke: yet could he


Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought

To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love could he but live

Who lately lived for me, and when he found 'Twas vain, in holy ground

He hid his face amid the shades of death!
I waste for him my breath

Who wasted his for me; but mine returns,
And this lone bosom burns
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,
And waking me to weep

Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years

Wept he as bitter tears!

"Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer, "These may she never share!"

Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold
Than daisies in the mould,

Where children spell athwart the churchyard

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1273.-THE BRIER.

My brier that smelledst sweet,
When gentle Spring's first heat

Ran through thy quiet veins;
Thou that could'st injure none,
But would'st be left alone,

Alone thou leavest me, and nought of thine remains.

What! hath no poet's lyre

O'er thee, sweet-breathing brier,
Hung fondly ill or well?
And yet, methinks, with thee
A poet's sympathy,

Whether in weal or woe, in life or death, might dwell.

Hard usage both must bear,

Few hands your youth will rear,
Few bosoms cherish you;


Children are what the mothers are.
No fondest father's fondest care
Can fashion so the infant heart
As those creative beams that dart,
With all their hopes and fears, upon
The cradle of a sleeping son.

His startled eyes with wonder see
A father near him on his knee,
Who wishes all the while to trace
The mother in his future face;
But 't is to her alone uprise
His wakening arms; to her those eyes
Open with joy and not surprise.

W. S. Landor.-Born 1775, Died 1864.


Iphigenia, when she heard her doom
At Aulis, and when all beside the king
Had gone away, took his right hand, and

"O father! I am young and very happy.

I do not think the pious Calchas heard Distinctly what the goddess spake ;-old age Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood, While I was resting on her knee both arms, And hitting it to make her mind my words, And looking in her face, and she in mine, Might not he, also, hear one word amiss, Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus ?" The father placed his cheek upon her head, And tears dropt down it; but the king of

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Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour,
Listen'd to fondly, and awaken'd me

To hear my voice amid the voice of birds,
When it was inarticulate as theirs,

And the down deadened it within the nest ?"
He moved her gently from him, silent still;
And this, and this alone, brought tears from

Although she saw fate nearer. Then with ighs: "I thought to have laid down my hair before Benignant Artemis, and not dimmed

Her polished altar with my virgin blood;
I thought to have selected the white flowers

To please the nymphs, and to have asked of each

By name, and with no sorrowful regret, Whether, since both my parents willed the change,

I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipt brow;

And (after these who mind us girls the most)

Adore our own Athene, that she would
Regard me mildly with her azure eyes-
But, father, to see you no more, and see
Your love, O father! go ere I am gone!"
Gently he moved her off, and drew her back,
Bending his lofty head far over hers;
And the dark depths of nature heaved and

He turned away-not far, but silent still.
She now first shuddered; for in him, so nigh,
So long a silence seem'd the approach of

And like it. Once again she raised her voice:
"O father! if the ships are now detain'd,
And all your vows move not the gods above,
When the knife strikes me there will be one


The less to them; and purer can there be
Any, or more fervent, than the daughter's


For her dear father's safety and success ?"
A groan that shook him shook not his resolve.
An aged man now entered, and without
One word, stepped slowly on, and took the

Of the pale maiden. She look'd up, and saw
The fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes.
Then turn'd she where her parent stood, and
cried :

"O father! grieve no more: the ships can sail."

W. S. Landor.-Born 1775, Died 1864.


The dreamy rhymer's measured snore
Falls heavy on our ears no more;
And by long strides are left behind
The dear delights of womankind,
Who wage their battles like their loves,
In satin waistcoats and kid gloves,
And have achieved the crowning work
When they have truss'd and skewer'd a Turk.
Another comes with stouter tread,
And stalks among the statelier dead:
He rushes on, and hails by turns
High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns;
And shows the British youth, who ne'er
Will lag behind, what Romans were,
When all the Tuscans and their Lars
Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars.

W. S. Landor.-Born 1775, Died 1864.


The wisest of the wise
Listen to pretty lies,

And love to hear them told;
Doubt not that Solomon
Listen'd to many a one-

Some in his youth, and more when he grew old.

I never sat among

The choir of Wisdom's song,

But pretty lies loved I

As much as any king

When youth was on the wing,

And (must it then be told?) when youth had quite gone by.

Alas! and I have not
The pleasant hour forgot,

When one pert lady said-
"O, Landor! I am quite
Bewilder'd with affright;

I see (sit quiet now!) a white hair on your head!"

Another, more benign,

Drew out that hair of mine,

And in her own dark hair
Pretended she had found

That one, and twirl'd it round.-
Fair as she was, she never was so fair.

W. S. Landor.-Born 1775, Died 1864.


'Tis the last rose of Summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh!

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie wither'à,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died1852.

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