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 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, 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! Of Time, which wafts you silent to your grave; William Lisle Bowles. G Greta, the River. TO THE RIVER GRETA, NEAR KESWICK. RETA, what fearful listening! when huge stones Combat, while darkness aggravates the groans: 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. ΜΥ Grisedale. GRISEDALE BECK. Y gentle stream, with constant smile and bright, Thy murmurous accents glad of yesternight, Of some wild torrent: it is not thy voice! Haddon Hall. HADDON HALL, DERBYSHIRE, JULY, 1836. OT fond displays of cost, nor pampered train NOT 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; The daily struggles of our human life, Seen through Time's veil, their selfish coloring lose, As here the glaring beams of outer day Through ivy-shadowed oriels softened play. HADDON HALL. Henry Alford. UTLAND, Vernon, whatsoe'er RU 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, 1 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. |