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While every word dropt on my ear
So soft (and yet it seemed to thrill), So sweet that 't was a heaven to hear, And e'en thy pause had music still.
And O, how like a fairy dream
To gaze in silence on the tide, While soft and warm the sunny gleam Slept on the glassy surface wide!
And many a thought of fancy bred,
So hours like moments winged their flight,
Recalled us by the dashing oar.
Well, Anna, many days like this
I cannot, must not hope to share; For I have found an hour of bliss Still followed by an age of care.
Yet oft when memory intervenes
But you, dear maid, be happy still,
YOME to these peaceful seats, and think no more
Come to these peaceful seats, ye who have bled
hard to forget
Of Time, which wafts you silent to your grave;
Greta, the River.
TO THE RIVER GRETA, NEAR KESWICK.
RETA, what fearful listening! when huge stones
Or, whirling with reiterated shock,
Combat, while darkness aggravates the groans:
The mourner, thy true nature was defamed,
MY gentle stream, with constant smile and bright,
I miss thy loving looks and winding ways,
Of some wild torrent: it is not thy voice!
HADDON HALL, DERBYSHIRE, JULY, 1836.
NOT fond displays of cost, nor pampered train
Of idle menials, me so much delight,
Nor mirrored halls, nor roofs with gilding bright,
And figures dim, inwoven in the grain
Of dusky tapestry. I love to muse
In present peace, on days of pomp and strife;
The daily struggles of our human life,
Seen through Time's veil, their selfish coloring lose,
UTLAND, Vernon, whatsoe'er
Ceased like an extinguished flame.
Solemn in the summer noon,
Ghost-like 'neath the midnight moon
Vacant chamber of the dead,
Through whose gloom fierce passions swept; Mouldering couch whereon, 't is said, The majesty of England slept;
Hall of wassail, which has rung
To the unquestioned baron's jest; Dim old chapel, where were hung
Offerings of the o'erfraught breast;
Moss-clad terrace, strangely still,
Broken shaft, and crumbling frieze, Still as lips that used to fill
With bugle-blasts the morning breeze!
Careless river, gliding under,
With no sense of awe or wonder
Thou in thy unconscious flow
Know'st not sorrows which destroy, Yet this truth thou dost not know,· Sorrows give a zest to joy.
Every record of the past
Makes the present more intense, Love's old temple overcast
Wakes to love the living sense.