Below the white-rimmed bonnet far descried. Who trembles now at thy capricious mood? 'Mid those surrounding Worthies, haughty King, We rather think, with grateful mind sedate, How Providence educeth, from the spring Of lawless will, unlooked-for streams of good, Which neither force shall check nor time abate!
ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY (GEORGE THE THIRD).
WARD of the Law ! —dread Shadow of a King! Whose realm had dwindled to one stately room; Whose universe was gloom immersed in gloom, Darkness as thick as life o'er life could fling, Save haply for some feeble glimmering
Of Faith and Hope, if thou, by Nature's doom, Gently hast sunk into the quiet tomb,
Why should we bend in grief, to sorrow cling, When thankfulness were best? — Fresh-flowing
Or, where tears flow not, sigh succeeding sigh, Yield to such after-thought the sole reply
Which justly it can claim.
In this deep knell, silent for threescore years, An unexampled voice of awful memory!
FAME tells of groves, -from England far away, * Groves that inspire the Nightingale to trill And modulate, with subtle reach of skill Elsewhere unmatched, her ever-varying lay; Such bold report I venture to gainsay : For I have heard the choir of Richmond Hill Chanting, with indefatigable bill,
Strains that recalled to mind a distant day; When, haply under shade of that same wood, And scarcely conscious of the dashing oars Plied steadily between those willowy shores, The sweet-souled Poet of the Seasons stood, Listening, and listening long, in rapturous mood, Ye heavenly Birds! to your Progenitors.
A PARSONAGE IN OXFORDSHIRE.
WHERE holy ground begins, unhallowed ends, Is marked by no distinguishable line;
The turf unites, the pathways intertwine; And, wheresoe'er the stealing footstep tends, Garden, and that domain where kindred, friends, And neighbors rest together, here confound.
* Wallachia is the country alluded to.
Their several features, mingled like the sound Of many waters, or as evening blends
With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower, Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave; And while those lofty poplars gently wave Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky Bright as the glimpses of eternity
To saints accorded in their mortal hour.
COMPOSED AMONG THE RUINS OF A CASTLE IN NORTH WALES.
THROUGH shattered galleries, 'mid roofless halls, Wandering with timid footsteps oft betrayed, The Stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid Old Time, though he, gentlest among the Thralls Of Destiny, upon these wounds hath laid His lenient touches, soft as light that falls, From the wan Moon, upon the towers and walls, Light deepening the profoundest sleep of shade. Relic of Kings! Wreck of forgotten wars, To winds abandoned and the prying stars, Time loves Thee! at his call the Seasons twine Luxuriant wreaths around thy forehead hoar; And, though past pomp no changes can restore, A soothing recompense, his gift, is thine!
TO THE LADY E. B. AND THE HON. MISS P.
Composed in the Grounds of Plass Newidd, near Llangollen,
A STREAM, to mingle with your favorite Dee, Along the VALE OF MEDITATION* flows; So styled by those fierce Britons, pleased to see In Nature's face the expression of repose; Or haply there some pious hermit chose
To live and die, the peace of heaven his aim; To whom the wild, sequestered region owes, At this late day, its sanctifying name.
GLYN CAFAILLGAROCH, in the Cambrian tongue, In ours, the VALE OF FRIENDSHIP, let this spot Be named; where, faithful to a low-roofed Cot, On Deva's banks, ye have abode so long; Sisters in love, a love allowed to climb,
Even on this earth, above the reach of Time !
TO THE TORRENT AT THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE, NORTH WALES,
Of waters issue from a British source,
Or hath not Pindus fed thee, where the band Of Patriots scoop their freedom out, with hand Desperate as thine? Or come the incessant shocks From that young Stream, that smites the throb- bing rocks
Of Viamala? There I seem to stand,
As in life's morn; permitted to behold,
From the dread chasm, woods climbing above woods,
In pomp that fades not; everlasting snows; And skies that ne'er relinquish their repose; Such power possess the family of floods Over the minds of Poets, young or old!
WILD Redbreast! hadst thou at Jemima's lip Pecked, as at mine, thus boldly, Love might say, A half-blown rose had tempted thee to sip Its glistening dews; but hallowed is the clay Which the Muse warms; and I, whose head is
Am not unworthy of thy fellowship;
Nor could I let one thought, one motion, slip That might thy sylvan confidence betray. For are we not all His without whose care Vouchsafed no sparrow falleth to the ground; Who gives his Angels wings to speed through air,
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