Is it that oft since then my heart has sighed
As youth and hope's delusive gleams flew fast ?
Is it that those who gathered on thy shore,
Companions of my youth, now meet no more?
Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend,
Sorrowing; yet feel such solace at my heart
As at the meeting of some long-lost friend,
From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part.

William Lisle Bowles.

Kenilworth.

THE IVY OF KENILWORTH.
SEARD'ST thou what the Ivy sighed,

In the place of regal mirth,
Now the silent Kenilworth ?

With its many glistening leaves,
There a solemn robe it weaves;
And a voice is in each fold,
Like an oracle's of old.

Heard'st thou, while with dews of night
Shone its berries darkly bright?
Yes! the whisperer seemed to say,
“ All things, all things pass away.
“Where I am the harp hath rung
Banners and proud shields among,

And the blood-red wine flowed free,
And the fire shot sparks of glee.

“ Where I am, now last and lone,
Queenly steps have come and gone,
Gorgeous masques have glided by,
Unto rolling harmony.

Flung from these illumined towers,
Light hath pierced the forest bowers,
Lake and pool and fount have been
Kindled by their midnight sheen.
“ Where is now the feasting high ?
Where the lordly minstrelsy?
Where the tourney's ringing spear?--
I am sole and silent here!

In
my

home no hearth is crowned,
Through my hall no wine foams round;
By my gates hath ceased the lay;
All things, all things pass away!”
Yes, thy warning voice I knew,
Ivy! and its tale is true;
All is passing, or hath passed, -
Thou thyself must perish last!

Keswick.

KESWICK.

ONCE

CE more I see thee, Skiddaw! once again

Behold thee in thy majesty serene,
Where, like the bulwark of this favored plain,

Alone thou standest, monarch of the scene,
Thou glorious mountain, on whose ample breast
The sunbeams love to play, the vapors love to rest.

Once more, O Derwent ! to thy awful shores

I come, insatiate of the accustomed sight,
And, listening as the eternal torrent roars,

Drink in with eye and ear a fresh delight;
For I have wandered far by land and sea,
In all my wanderings still remembering thee.

Twelve years, (how large a part of man's brief day !)

Nor idly nor ingloriously spent,
Of evil and of good have held their way,

Since first upon thy banks I pitched my tent.
Hither I came in manhood's active prime,
And here my head hath felt the touch of time.

Heaven hath with goodly increase blest me here,

Where childless and oppressed with grief I came;

With voice of fervent thankfulness sincere,

Let me the blessings which are mine proclaim : Here I

possess - what more should I require ? Books, children, leisure, - all my heart's desire.

Robert Southey.

KESWICK.

’T WAS cat that sober hour when the light of day is

And from surrounding things the hues wherewith day

has adorned them Fade, like the hopes of youth, till the beauty of earth

is departed, Pensive, though not in thought, I stood at the window,

beholding Mountain and lake and vale; the valley disrobed of its

verdure; Derwent retaining yet from eve a glassy reflection, Where his expanded breast, then still and smooth as a

mirror, Under the woods reposed; the hills that, calm and

majestic, Lifted their heads in the silent sky, from far Glara

mara, Bleacrag, and Maidenmawr, to Grizedal and wester

most Withop. Dark and distinct they rose. The clouds had gathered

above them High in the middle air, — huge, purple, pillowy masses ;

While in the west beyond was the last pale tint of the

twilight, Green as a stream in the glen whose pure and chryso

lite waters Flow o'er a schistous bed, and serene as the age of the

righteous. Earth was hushed and still; all motion and sound were

suspended : Neither man was heard, bird, beast, nor humming of

insect, Only the voice of the Greta, heard only when all is in

stillness. Pensive I stood, and alone; the hour and the scene had

subdued me; And as I gazed in the west, where infinity seemed to

be

open, Yearned to be free from time, and felt that this life is a thraldom.

Robert Southey.

Kirkstone.

THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE.

WITHIN the mind strong fancies work,

A deep delight the bosom thrills,
Oft as I pass along the fork
Of these fraternal hills :