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While every word dropt on my ear

So soft (and yet it seemed to thrill), So sweet that it 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,

Wild, soothing, tender, undefined, Played lightly round the heart, and shed

Delicious languor o'er the mind.

So hours like moments winged their flight,

Till now the boatmen on the shore, Impatient of the waning light,

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 mem

But you, dear maid, be happy still,
Nor e'er regret, midst fairer scenes,
The day we passed on Greenwich Hill.

William Gifford.



YOME to these peaceful seats, and think no more

Of cold, of midnight watchings, or the roar Of Ocean tossing on his restless bed! Come to these peaceful seats, ye who have bled For honor, who have traversed the great flood, Or on the battle's front with stern eye stood, When rolled its thunder, and the billows red Oft closed, with sudden flashings, o'er the dead. O, heavy are the sorrows that beset Old age! and hard it is, - hard to forget The sunshine of our youth, our manhood's pride! But here, O aged men! ye may abide Secure, and see the last light on the wave Of Time, which wafts you silent to your grave; Like the calm evening ray, that smiles serene Upon the tranquil Thames, and cheers the sinking scene.

William Lisle Bowles.

Greta, the River.


(RETA, what fearful listening! when huge stones

Rumble along thy bed, block after block;
Or, whirling with reiterated shock,
Combat, while darkness aggravates the groans :
But if thou (like Cocytus from the moans
Heard on his rueful margin) thence wert named

The mourner, thy true nature was defamed,
And the habitual murmur that atones
For thy worst rage forgotten. Oft as Spring
Decks, on thy sinuous banks, her thousand thrones,
Seats of glad instinct and love's carolling,
The concert, for the happy, then may vie
With liveliest peals of birthday harmony;
To a grieved heart the notes are benisons.

William Wordsworth.



My gentle stream, with constant smile and bright,


Thy murmurous accents glad of yesternight,
Sweet as from earnest lips the words of praise;
Where art thou, friend? I hear the impetuous noise
Of hurried passion, the unmeaning roar
Of some wild torrent: it is not thy voice!
Nor doth thy wave respect its wonted shore,
But arrowy-straight in frantic fury springs.
I grieve that I e’er knew thee: happy lieart
And noble, that with either moods hath part :
Mine hath not; but with timid love it clings
Conscious of weakness : and it doth so lean
To some boy-friends grown hard and headstrong men.

James Payn.

Haddon Hall.

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HADDON HALL, DERBYSHIRE, JULY, 1836. TOT fond displays of cost, nor pampered train

Of idle menials, me so much delight, Nor mirrored halls, nor roofs with gilding bright, Nor all the foolery of the rich and vain, As these time-honored walls, crowning the plain With their gray battlements; within bedight With ancient trophies of baronial might, 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, As here the glaring beams of outer day Through ivy-shadowed oriels softened play.

Henry Alford.


UTLAND, 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

By some trailing shadow cleft;

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,

Ever gliding, lapsing on,
With no sense of awe or wonder

At the ages which have gone;

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.

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