1254.-SONNET. 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. 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. 1258.-ON REVISITING OXFORD. 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 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. 1259.-ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. WILLIAM BENWELL. 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 fall 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. 1260.-ON REVIEWING THE FOREGOING. 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. 1261.-PATH OF LIFE. 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, To think of friends and parents dead, The Lord may give or take away, W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762 Died 1850. 1262.-SUN-RISE. When from my humble bed I rise, I think of that Almighty power, And then I pray, in every land, W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850. 1263.-SUMMER'S EVENING. As homeward by the evening star I see the taper's light afar My brothers and my sisters dear, And when the fire is growing dim, I fold my hands, and say my hymn, W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850. 1264.-SPRING.-CUCKOO. The bee is humming in the sun, The yellow cowslip springs, She sings from day to day; W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850. 1265.-SHEEP-FOLD. The sheep were in the fold at night; How anxiously the mother tries, To screen it from inclement skies, 1267.-BIRD'S NEST. In yonder brake there is a nest, But come not, George, too nigh, Think with what pain, through many a day, And think how must her heart deplore, If those she rear'd, and nursed, and loved, W. L. Bowles.-Born 1762, Died 1850. 1270.-GLOW-WORM. Oh! what is this which shines so bright, Hangs out his small green lamp at night, It is a glow-worm-Still and pale And so, amid the world's cold night, 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." 1271.-STAR-LIGHT FROST. The stars are shining over head, So will they shine when we are dead, For brief the time and short the space But the pure soul from dust shall rise, 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. 1272.-THE MAID'S LAMENT. 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 speak, Alas! I would not check. For reasons not to love him once I sought, To vex myself and him: I now would give Who lately lived for me, and when he found 'Twas vain, in holy ground He hid his face amid the shades of death! Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, 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 Where children spell athwart the churchyard 1273.-THE BRIER. My brier that smelledst sweet, Ran through thy quiet veins; Alone thou leavest me, and nought of thine remains. What! hath no poet's lyre O'er thee, sweet-breathing brier, Whether in weal or woe, in life or death, might dwell. Hard usage both must bear, Few hands your youth will rear, 1274.-CHILDREN. Children are what the mothers are. His startled eyes with wonder see W. S. Landor.-Born 1775, Died 1864. 1275.-IPHIGENIA AND AGAMEMNON. Iphigenia, when she heard her doom "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 Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour, To hear my voice amid the voice of birds, And the down deadened it within the nest ?" 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; 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 He turned away-not far, but silent still. And like it. Once again she raised her voice: prayer The less to them; and purer can there be prayer For her dear father's safety and success ?" Of the pale maiden. She look'd up, and saw "O father! grieve no more: the ships can sail." W. S. Landor.-Born 1775, Died 1864. 1276.-TO MACAULAY. The dreamy rhymer's measured snore W. S. Landor.-Born 1775, Died 1864. 1277.-THE ONE GRAY HAIR. The wisest of the wise And love to hear them told; 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 When one pert lady said- 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 That one, and twirl'd it round.- W. S. Landor.-Born 1775, Died 1864. 1278.-'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 'Tis the last rose of Summer I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, 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, This bleak world alone? Thomas Moore.-Born 1780, Died1852. |