THE BANKS OF THE WYE. Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence, wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, Then the shrouds drop, The downy feather on the cordage hung Moves not; the flat sea shines like yellow gold Fused in the fire, or like the marble floor Of some old temple wide; but where so wide, In old or later time, its marble floor Did ever temple boast as this, which here Spreads its bright level many a league around? DYER. TO YONDER hill, whose sides, deform'd and steep, Smiling upon the golden fields of corn, Beheld through sympathy's enchanted eyes: With silent admiration oft we view'd The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave strew'd; The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade, Round which the silvery sunbeam glancing play'd, And the round orb itself, in azure throne, Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone: We mark'd, delighted, how, with aspect gay, Reviving nature hail'd returning day; Mark'd how the flow'rets rear'd their drooping heads, HENRY KIRKE WHITE. AND O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Think not of any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Another race hath been and other palms are won. WORDSWORTH. |