Ye vales and hills whose beauty hither drew The poet's steps, and fixed him here, on you His eyes have closed! And ye, loved books, no more Shall Southey feed upon your precious lore,...
Here, free from riot's hated noise, Be mine, ye calmer, purer joys, A book or friend bestows; Far from the storms that shake the great, Contentment's gale shall fan my seat, And sweeten my repose.
To them who crossed the flood And climbed the hill, with eyes Upon the heavenly flag intent, And through the deathful tumult went Even unto death: to them this Stone -...
When thou dost eat from off this plate, I charge thee be thou temperate; Unto thine elders at the board Do thou sweet reverence accord; And, though to dignity inclined, Unto the serving-folk be kind;...
Pause here and think: a monitory rhyme Demands one moment of thy fleeting time. Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein; Seems it to say''Health here has long to reign?'...
For thirty years secluded from mankind, Here Marten linger'd. Often have these walls Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread He paced around his prison: not to him Did Nature's fair varieties exist;...
When some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe And storied urns record who rest below:...
This mound in some remote and dateless day Rear'd o'er a Chieftain of the Age [1] of Hills, May here detain thee Traveller! from thy road Not idly lingering. In his narrow house...
This is the place where William's kingly power Did from their poor and peaceful homes expel, Unfriended, desolate, and shelterless, The habitants of all the fertile track...
Ranging the heights of Scawfell or Blackcomb, In his lone course the Shepherd oft will pause, And strive to fathom the mysterious laws By which the clouds, arrayed in light or gloom,...
The fields are full of Poppies, and the skies are very blue, By the Temple in the coppice, I wait, Beloved, for you. The level land is sunny, and the errant air is gay,...
In the ember days of my last free summer, here I lie, outside myself, watching the gross body eating a poor curry: satisfied at what I have done, scared of what I have to do in my last free winter.
When, foot to wheel and back to wind, The helmsman dare not look behind, But hears beyond his compass-light, The blind bow thunder through the night, And, like a harpstring ere it snaps,...