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As one, who, long by wasting sickness worn,
Weary has watched the lingering night, and heard,
Heartless, the carol of the matin-bird, Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed;
He the green slope and level meadow views,
Delightful bathed in slow ascending dews;
Or turns his ear to every random song,
Heard the green river's winding marge along, The whilst each sense is steeped in still delight: With such delight o'er all my heart I feel, Sweet Hope, thy fragrance pure and healing incense
Fall'n pile! I ask not what has been thy fate;
But when the weak winds, wafted from the main,
Through each rent arch, like spirits that complain,
Of those who once full proudly in their prime
And beauteous might have stood, till bowed by time Or injury, their early boast forgot, They may have fallen like thee : pale and forlorn,
Their brows, besprent with thin hairs, white as snow,
They lift, majestic yet, as they would scorn
AT TYNEMOUTH, NORTHUMBERLAND, AFTER
As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,
Much musing on the track of terror past,
When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast,
Of evening smiles on the g grey battlement,
forsaken tower that Time has rent:-
Soothed by the scene, thus on tired Nature's breast
A stillness slowly steals, and kindred rest;
TO THE RIVER ITCHIN.
ITchin, when I behold thy banks again,
Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast,
On which the self-same tints still seem to rest, Why feels my heart the shivering sense of pain? Is it—that many a summer's day has past
Since in life's morn I carolled on thy side?
Is it—that oft, since then, my heart has sighed, As youth, and Hope's delusive gleams, flew fast?
Is it—that those, who circled on thy shore,
Companions of my youth, now meet no more?
Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart,
ON THE RHINE.
'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow,
(Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine)
Streamed the blue light, when on the sparkling Rhine We bounded, and the white waves round the prow In murmurs parted, varying as we go.
Lo! the woods open, and the rocks retire,
Some convent's ancient walls, or glistening spire, 'Mid the bright landscape's track, unfolding slow. Here dark, with furrowed aspect, like despair,
Frowns the bleak cliff-there on the woodland's side
The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide;
TO THE RIVER CHERWELL, OXFORD.
CHERWELL! how pleased along thy willowed hedge
Erewhile I strayed, or when the morn began
To tinge the distant turret's gleamy fan,
I bid the pipe farewell, and that sad lay
Whose music on my melancholy way
Of joy return, as when Heaven's beauteous bow
Beams on the night-storm's passing wings below:
As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds,
Still on that vision which is flown I dwell!
On images I loved (alas, too well!)
Such recollections, painful though they seem,
And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream I wake, and find them not: then I could weep To think that Time so soon each sweet devours;
To think so soon life's first endearments fail,
And we are still misled by Hope's smooth tale ! Who, like a flatterer, when the happiest hours Are past, and most we wish her cheering lay, Will fly, as faithless, and as fleet as they !
How blest with thee, the path could I have trod
Of quiet life, above cold Want's hard fate,
(And little wishing more) nor of the great Envious, or their proud name! But it pleased God To take thee to His mercy: thou didst go
In youth and beauty, go to thy death-bed;
Ev'n while on dreams of bliss we fondly fed,
(Though sometimes the unbidden thought must start,
And half unman the miserable heart),
ON REVISITING OXFORD.
I never hear the sound of thy glad bells,
Oxford! and chime harmonious, but I say,
(Sighing to think how Time has worn away,) “Some spirit speaks in the sweet tone that swells, Heard after years of absence, from the vale Where Cherwell winds.” Most true it speaks the tale
Of days departed, and its voice recals
Of life, and many friends now scattered wide
Denied the joys sought in thy shades,--denied
died, What I have owed to thee, my heart can ne'er forget!
I TURN these leaves with thronging thoughts, and say:
“Alas! how many friends of youth are dead,
How many visions of fair hope have fled,
Life, and its shadows; yet we sit and sing,
Beneath the pleasant morning's purple wing
O, ere the coming of the long cold night,