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; Yet oft when memory intervenes William Gifford. GREENWICH HOSPITAL. YOME to these peaceful seats, and think no more COME Of cold, of midnight watchings, or the roar Come to these peaceful seats, ye who have bled Old age! and hard it is, - hard to forget The sunshine of our youth, our manhood's pride! Secure, and see the last light on the wave William Lisle Bowles. Greta, the River. TO THE RIVER GRETA, NEAR KESWICK. YRETA, what fearful listening! when huge stones GR Rumble along thy bed, block after block; Or, whirling with reiterated shock, Combat, while darkness aggravates the groans: Heard on his rueful margin) thence wert named The mourner, thy true nature was defamed, For thy worst rage forgotten. Oft as Spring The concert, for the happy, then may vie William Wordsworth. Grisedale. GRISEDALE BECK. MY gentle stream, with constant smile and bright, I miss thy loving looks and winding ways, Thy murmurous accents glad of yesternight, Of some wild torrent: it is not thy voice! James Payn. Haddon Hall. 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, As these time-honored walls, crowning the plain In present peace, on days of pomp and strife; Seen through Time's veil, their selfish coloring lose, As here the glaring beams of outer day Through ivy-shadowed oriels softened play. Henry Alford. HADDON HALL. OUTLAND, Vernon, whatsoe'er The boasted rank, the lordly name, All have melted into air, Ceased like an extinguished flame. Solemn in the summer noon, Memory-ridden, hope-bereft, 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; Moss-clad terrace, strangely still, With bugle-blasts the morning breeze! Careless river, gliding under, Ever gliding, lapsing on, 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. |