They flash upon that inward eye And then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils. William Wordsworth. From How the Water comes down at Lodore (English Lakes) ERE it comes sparkling, HERE And there it lies darkling, Here smoking and frothing, Its tumult and wrath in. It hastens along conflicting strong; Now striking and raging, As if a war waging, Its caverns and rocks among; Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and flinging, Showering and springing, Eddying and whisking, Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting Around and around, Godiva Confounding, astounding, Robert Southey. (Coventry) I WAITED for the train at Coventry; I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge, To watch the three tall spires; and there I shaped The city's ancient legend into this:— Not only we, the latest seed of Time, Upon his town, and all the mothers brought His beard a foot before him, and his hair For such as these?" "But I would die," said she. He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by Paul: "But prove me what it is I would not do." Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity. The deep air listen'd round her as she rode, And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear. The little wide-mouth'd heads upon the spout Had cunning eyes to see; the barking cur Made her cheek flame; her palfrey's footfall shot Light horrors thro' her pulses; the blind walls Were full of chinks and holes; and overhead Fantastic gables, crowding, stared; but she Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she saw The white-flower'd elder-thicket from the field Gleam thro' the Gothic archway in the wall. Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity. And one low churl, compact of thankless earth, The fatal byword of all years to come, Boring a little auger-hole in fear, Peep'd but his eyes, before they had their will, And she, that knew not, pass'd; and all at once noon Was clash'd and hammer'd from a hundred towers, Her bower, whence reissuing, robed and crown'd, Alfred Tennyson. D Lines written at Warwick (Warwick) HAIL! centre-county of our land, and known For matchless worth and valor all thine own, Warwick renowned for him who best could write, Shakespeare the Bard, and him so fierce in fight, Guy, thy brave Earl, who made whole armies fly, And giants fall, who has not heard of Guy? Him sent his Lady, matchless in her charms, That marred some beauty, which our nymph had not: But this apart, for in a favorite theme Poets and lovers are allowed to dream, Were matchless both, he in the glorious fight, She in the bower by day, and festive hall by night. Urged by his love, the adventurous Guy proceeds, And Europe wonders at his warlike deeds; Whatever prince his potent arm sustains, However weak, the certain conquest gains; On every side the routed legions fly, Numbers are nothing in the sight of Guy: |