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Is it that oft since then my heart has sighed
William Lisle Bowles.
THE IVY OF KENILWORTH.
In the place of regal mirth,
With its many glistening leaves,
Heard'st thou, while with dews of night
And the blood-red wine flowed free,
“ Where I am, now last and lone,
Flung from these illumined towers,
home no hearth is crowned,
CE more I see thee, Skiddaw! once again
Behold thee in thy majesty serene,
Alone thou standest, monarch of the scene,
Once more, O Derwent ! to thy awful shores
I come, insatiate of the accustomed sight,
Drink in with eye and ear a fresh delight;
Twelve years, (how large a part of man's brief day !)
Nor idly nor ingloriously spent,
Since first upon thy banks I pitched my tent.
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.
’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
open, Yearned to be free from time, and felt that this life is a thraldom.
THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE.
WITHIN the mind strong fancies work,
A deep delight the bosom thrills,