How clear a strife of light and shade is spread! The face how touched with nature's loveliest red! The eye, how eloquent, and yet how meek! The glow subdued, yet mantling on thy cheek!...
England, a long farewell! a long farewell, My country, to thy woods, and streams, and hills! Where I have heard in youth the Sabbath bell, For many a year now mute: affection fills...
Oh, stay, harmonious and sweet sounds, that die In the long vaultings of this ancient fane! Stay, for I may not hear on earth again Those pious airs, that glorious harmony;...
Clysdale! as thy romantic vales I leave, And bid farewell to each retiring hill, Where musing memory seems to linger still, Tracing the broad bright landscape; much I grieve...
Yes, Pamela, this infant tree Planted in sacred earth by thee, Shall strike its root, and pleasant grow Whilst I am mouldering dust below. This churchyard turf shall still be green,...
There is but one stage more in life's long way, O widowed women! Sadly upon your path Hath evening, bringing change of scenes and friends, Descended, since the morn of hope shone fair;...
Not that thy name, illustrious dome! recalls The pomp of chivalry in bannered halls, The blaze of beauty, and the gorgeous sights Of heralds, trophies, steeds, and crested knights;...
Artist, I own thy genius; but the touch May be too restless, and the glare too much: And sure none ever saw a landscape shine, Basking in beams of such a sun as thine, But felt a fervid dew upon his phiz,...
What various objects strike with various force, Achilles, Hebe, and Sir Watkin's horse! Here summer scenes, there Pentland's stormy ridge, Lords, ladies, Noah's ark, and Cranford bridge!...
Oh, shout for Lautaro, the young and the brave! The arm of whose strength was uplifted to save, When the steeds of the strangers came rushing amain, And the ghosts of our fathers looked down on the slain! ...
Stranger, stay, nor wish to climb The heights of yonder hills sublime; For there strange shapes and spirits dwell,[1] That oft the murmuring thunders swell, Of power from the impending steep...
What pale and bleeding youth, whilst the fell blast Howls o'er the wreck, and fainter sinks the cry Of struggling wretches ere, o'erwhelmed, they die, Yet floats upborne upon the driving mast!...
This poem was first published under the name of "One of the Living Poets of Great Britain." I have thought it best to revise and publish it in my own name, and as it is the last written by me, and the last I may ever live to wr...
While summer airs scarce breathe along the tide, Oft pausing, up the mountain's craggy side We climb, how beautiful, how still, how clear, The scenes that stretch around! The rocks that rear...
So passes silent o'er the dead thy shade, Brief Time; and hour by hour, and day by day, The pleasing pictures of the present fade, And like a summer vapour steal away! ...
High on the hill, with moss o'ergrown, A hermit chapel stood; It spoke the tale of seasons gone, And half-revealed its ivied stone. Amid the beechen wood.
When o'er the Atlantic wild, rocked by the blast, Sad Lusitania's exiled sovereign passed, Reft of her pomp, from her paternal throne Cast forth, and wandering to a clime unknown,...
I need not perhaps inform the reader, that I had before written a Canto on the subject of this poem; but I was dissatisfied with the metre, and felt the necessity of some connecting idea that might give it a degree of unity and...