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Or Dardan Brutus gave our isle a name,
WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS.
N this lone open glade I lie,
Screened by deep boughs on either hand; And at its head, to stay the eye, Those black-crowned, red-boled pine-trees stand. Birds here make song, each bird has his, Across the girdling city's hum. How green under the boughs it is! How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come! Sometimes a child will cross the glade To take his nurse his broken toy; Sometimes a thrush flit overhead Deep in her unknown day's employ.
Here at my feet what wonders pass,
Scarce fresher is the mountain sod
In the huge world which roars hard by
I, on men's impious uproar hurled,
Yet here is peace forever new!
Then to their happy rest they pass ;
Calm soul of all things ! make it mine
The will to neither strive nor cry,
Matthew Arnold. HOLLAND HOUSE.
THOU hill, whose brow the antique structures grace,
Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, Why, once so loved, whene’er thy bower appears, O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears ! How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, Thy sloping walks and unpolluted air ! How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees, Thy noontide shadow and the evening breeze! His image thy forsaken bowers restore ; Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more; No more the summer in thy glooms allayed, Thy evening breezes, and thy noonday shade.
From other ills, however fortune frowned, Some refuge in the Muse's art I found; Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, Böreft of him who taught me how to sing ; And these sad accents, murmured o'er his urn, Betray that absence they attempt to mourn.
COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPTEMBER 3, 1802.
A sight so touching in its majesty:
Open unto the fields, and to the sky,
ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER,
TORTALITY, behold and fear,
What a change of flesh is here !
Francis Beaumont. TWO QUEENS IN WESTMINSTER.
IN the Chapel of Henry the Seventh,
Show the conquered stone-work, hanging
Like cobweb films in air,
Whose memories closely press :
And that of stout Queen Bess.
Each side of the sleeping Tudor
They rest; and over their dust The canopies mould and darken
And the gilding gathers rust;
Each effigied in stone,
Uncrowned, and cold, and alone.
Beside them pass the thousands
Each day; and hundreds strive
That knoweth no man alive,
And which was more to be feared,
Or the woman too close endeared.
One weakened her land with faction,
One strengthened with bands of steel;