Imágenes de páginas

So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.
This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord,
I answered indirectly, as I said ;
And, I beseech you, let not his report
Come current for an accusation,
Betwixt my love and your high Majesty.

William Shakespeare.

Inglewood Forest.




THE forest huge of ancient Caledon

Is but a name; nor more is Inglewood, That swept from hill to hill, from flood to flood: On her last thorn the nightly moon has shone; Yet still, though unappropriate wild be none, Fair parks spread wide where Adam Bell might deign With Clym o'the Clough, were they alive again, To kill for merry feast their venison. Nor wants the holy abbot's gliding shade His church with monumental wreck bestrewn; The feudal warrior-chief, a ghost unlaid, Hath still his castle, though a skeleton, That he may watch by night, and lessons con power that perishes and rights that fade.

William Wordsworth.





TAREWELL the fields of Irwan's vale,

My infant years where Fancy led, And soothed me with the western gale,

Her wild dreams waving round my head, While the blithe blackbird told his tale. Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale !

The primrose on the valley's side,

The green thyme on the mountain's head, The wanton rose, the daisy pied,

The wilding's blossom blushing red; No longer I their sweets inhale. Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale !

How oft, within yon vacant shade,

Has evening closed my careless eye!
How oft along those banks I've strayed,

And watched the wave that wandered by;
Full long their loss shall I bewail.
Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale !

Yet still, within yon vacant grove,

To mark the close of parting day,
Along yon flowery banks to rove,

And watch the wave that winds away,
Fair Fancy sure shall never fail,
Though far from these and Irwan's vale.

John Langhorne.

Isis, the River.


IVER, who with thy two soul-stirring names

Speak'st, one of Ruedicyna's youthful dream,
And one of Commerce', Empire's mighty stream
At proud Augusta's foot, — Isis, and Thames,
From Godstow, where the fairest of frail dames,
Ros’mund, with epitaph uncourteous lies,
Down to the reach where the tired skiffer ties
His boat for Newnham's summer feast and games,
These are the limits of my Isis: there,
Or up or down, I cleft my swift-oared way
Nightly, alone, with little heed or care,
Through the full stream with racing cutters gay;
Oft laughing at the imperious steersman's shout,
As from his very bows I glided out !

John Bruce Norton.

Isle of Man.


“ Dignum laude virum Musa vetat mori.”

HE feudal keep, the bastions of Cohorn,

Tides of aggressive war, oft served as well
Greedy ambition, armed to treat with scorn

Just limits; but yon tower, whose smiles adorn
This perilous bay, stands clear of all offence :
Blest work it is of love and innocence,
A tower of refuge to the else forlorn.
Spare it, ye waves, and lift the mariner,
Struggling for life, into its saving arms!
Spare, too, the human helpers! Do they stir
Mid your fierce shock like men afraid to die ?
No; their dread service nerves the heart it warms,
And they are led by noble Hillary.

William Wordsworth.



WHY stand we gazing on the sparkling brine,

With wonder smit by its transparency,
And all enraptured with its purity ?
Because the unstained, the clear, the crystalline
Have ever in them something of benign;
Whether in gem, in water, or in sky,
A sleeping infant's brow, or wakeful eye
Of a young maiden, only not divine.
Scarcely the hand forbears to dip its palm
For beverage drawn as from a mountain well.
Temptation centres in the liquid calm;
Our daily raiment seems no obstacle
To instantaneous plunging in, deep sea !
And revelling in long embrace with thee.

William Wordsworth. TYNWALD HILL.


NCE on the top of Tynwald's formal mound

(Still marked with green turf circles narrowing Stage above stage) would sit this island's king, The laws to promulgate, enrobed and crowned; While, compassing the little mount around, Degrees and orders stood, each under each ; Now, like to things within fate's easiest reach, The power is merged, the pomp a grave has found. Off with yon cloud, old Snafell! that thine eye Over three realms may take its widest range; And let, for them, thy fountains utter strange Voices, thy winds break forth in prophecy, If the whole state must suffer mortal change, Like Mona's miniature of sovereignty.

William Wordsworth.

Itchin, the River.


Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast,
On which the selfsame tints still seem to rest,
Why feels my heart a shivering sense of pain ?
Is it that many a summer's day has past
Since in life's morn I carolled on thy side ?

« AnteriorContinuar »