RAPT above earth by power of one fair face, Hers in whose sway alone heart delights, I mingle with the blest on those pure heights Where Man, yet mortal, rarely finds a place. With Him who made the Work that Work accords So well, that by its help and through his grace I raise my thoughts, inform my deeds and words, Clasping her beauty in my soul's embrace. Thus, if from two fair eyes mine cannot turn, I feel how in their presence doth abide Light which to God is both the way and guide; And, kindling at their lustre, if I burn, My noble fire emits the joyful ray
That through the realms of glory shines for aye.
ETERNAL Lord! eased of a cumbrous load, And loosened from the world, I turn to Thee; Shun, like a shattered bark, the storm, and flee To thy protection for a safe abode.
The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon the tree, The meek, benign, and lacerated face, To a sincere repentance promise grace, To the sad soul give hope of pardon free. With justice mark not Thou, O Light divine, My fault, nor hear it with Thy sacred ear; Neither put forth that way Thy arm severe; Wash with Thy blood my sins; thereto incline More readily the more my years require Help, and forgiveness speedy and entire.
At Florence. From Michael Angelo
At Florence. From Michael Angelo
In Lombardy SEE, where his difficult way that Old Man wins Bent by a load of Mulberry leaves !—most hard Appears his lot, to the small Worm's compared, For whom his toil with early day begins. Acknowledging no task-master, at will (As if her labour and her ease were twins) She seems to work, at pleasure to lie still ;- And softly sleeps within the thread she spins. So fare they the Man serving as her Slave. Ere long their fates do each to each conform : Both pass into new being,—but the Worm, Transfigured, sinks into a hopeless grave; His volant Spirit will, he trusts, ascend To bliss unbounded, glory without end.
After leaving FAIR land! Thee all men greet with joy; how few, Italy Whose souls take pride in freedom, virtue, fame, Part from thee without pity dyed in shame : I could not—while from Venice we withdrew, Led on till an Alpine strait confined our view Within its depths, and to the shore we came Of Lago Morto, dreary sight and name, Which o'er sad thoughts a sadder colouring threw. Italia! on the surface of thy spirit, (Too aptly emblemed by that torpid lake) Shall a few partial breezes only creep?- Be its depths quickened; what thou dost inherit Of the world's hopes, dare to fulfil; awake, Mother of Heroes, from thy death-like sleep!
As indignation mastered grief, my tongue Spake bitter words; words that did ill agree With those rich stores of Nature's imagery, And divine Art, that fast to memory clung— Thy gifts, magnificent Region, ever young In the sun's eye, and in his sister's sight How beautiful! how worthy to be sung In strains of rapture, or subdued delight! I feign not; witness that unwelcome shock That followed the first sound of German speech, Caught the far-winding barrier Alps among. In that announcement, greeting seemed to mock Parting; the casual word had power to reach My heart, and filled that heart with conflict strong.
Ir with old love of you, dear Hills! I share New love of many a rival image brought
From far, forgive the wanderings of my thought: Morning, Nor art thou wrong'd, sweet May! when I compare 1838 Thy present birth-morn with thy last, so fair,
So rich to me in favours. For my lot Then was within the famed Egerian Grot To sit and muse, fanned by its dewy air Mingling with thy soft breath! That morning too, Warblers I heard their joy unbosoming Amid the sunny, shadowy, Colosseum; Heard them, unchecked by aught of saddening hue, For victories there won by flower-crowned Spring, Chant in full choir their innocent Te Deum.
Composed mostly during a Tour in Scotland and on the English Border in the Autumn of 1831
On the A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain, Departure of Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light Sir Walter Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height: Abbotsford Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain for Naples For kindred Power departing from their sight; While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,
Saddens his voice again, and yet again.
Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes; Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue
Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows, Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!
PART fenced by man, part by a rugged steep That curbs a foaming brook, a Grave-yard lies; The hare's best couching-place for fearless sleep; Which moonlit elves, far seen by credulous eyes, Enter in dance. Of church, or sabbath ties, No vestige now remains; yet thither creep Bereft Ones, and in lowly anguish weep Their prayers out to the wind and naked skies. Proud tombis none; but rudely-sculptured knights, By humble choice of plain old times, are seen Level with earth, among the hillocks green: Union not sad, when sunny daybreak smites The spangled turf, and neighbouring thickets ring With jubilate from the choirs of spring!
SAY, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hills- Among the happiest-looking homes of men Scattered all Britain over, through deep glen, On airy upland, and by forest rills,
And o'er wide plains cheered by the lark that trills Hissky-born warblings-does aught meet your ken More fit to animate the Poet's pen,
Aught that more surely by its aspect fills Pure minds with sinless envy, than the Abode Of the good Priest: who, faithful through all hours To his high charge, and truly serving God, Has yet a heart and hand for trees and flowers, Enjoys the walks his predecessors trod, Nor covets lineal rights in lands and towers.
A Place of Burial in the
South of Scotland
On the sight
of a Manse in the South
of Scotland
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