The Year's twelve daughters had in turn gone by, Of measured pace tho' varying mien all twelve, Some froward, some sedater, some adorn'd For festival, some reckless of attire....
Ah what avails the sceptred race, Ah what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see,...
"Do you remember me? or are you proud?" Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd, Ianthe said, and lookt into my eyes, "A yes, a yes, to both: for Memory Where you but once have been must ever be,...
"You must give back," her mother said, To a poor sobbing little maid, "All the young man has given you, Hard as it now may seem to do." "'Tis done already, mother dear!"...
Remain, ah not in youth alone! Tho' youth, where you are, long will stay, But when my summer days are gone, And my autumnal haste away. 'Can I be always by your side?'...
Ah what avails the sceptred race, Ah what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see,...
Beautiful spoils! borne off from vanquish'd death! Upon my heart's high altar shall ye lie, Mov'd but by only one adorer's breath, Retaining youth, rewarding constancy.
The chrysolites and rubies Bacchus brings To crown the feast where swells the broad-vein'd brow, Where maidens blush at what the minstrel sings, They who have coveted may covet now. ...
When the buds began to burst, Long ago, with Rose the First I was walking; joyous then Far above all other men, Till before us up there stood Britonferry's oaken wood,...
There is delight in singing, tho' none hear Beside the singer; and there is delight In praising, tho' the praiser sit alone And see the prais'd far off him, far above....
Avon! why runnest thou away so fast? Rest thee before that Chancel where repose The bones of him whose spirit moves the world. I have beheld thy birthplace, I have seen Thy tiny ripples where they play amid...
Well I remember how you smiled To see me write your name upon The soft sea-sand--'_O! what a child!_ _You think you're writing upon stone!_' I have since written what no tide...
With rosy hand a little girl prest down A boss of fresh-cull'd cowslips in a rill: Often as they sprang up again, a frown Show'd she disliked resistance to her will:...