Not for a moment could I now behold Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friend O'tis a passionate Work!-yet wise and well, And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, -Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind. But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, William Wordsworth [1770-1850] WILLIAM BLAKE [1757-1827] He came to the desert of London town, Gray miles long; He wandered up and he wandered down, He came to the desert of London town, He wandered up and he wandered down, Ever alone with God. There were thousands and thousands of human kind In that desert of brick and stone: But some were deaf and some were blind, And he was there alone. At length the good hour came; he died He was not missed from the desert wide, Perhaps he was found at the Throne. James Thomson [1834-1882] E. B. B. [1806-1861] THE white-rose garland at her feet, The crown of laurel at her head, Soldiers find their fittest grave In the field whereon they died; Leaves the clay it glorified To the land for which she fought Keats and Shelley sleep at Rome, Very sacred English dust. Therefore this one prayer I breathe,— That you yet may worthy prove Who have loved you with such love: Yields their free souls no fit graves. James Thomson [1834-1882] ROBERT BURNS [1759-1796] ALL Scottish legends did his fancy fashion, All airs that richly flow, Laughing with frolic, tremulous with passion, Broken with love-lorn woe; Ballads whose beauties years have long been stealing And left few links of gold, Under his quaint and subtle touch of healing Grew fairer, not less old. Gray Cluden, and the vestal's choral cadence, His spell awoke therewith; Till boatmen hung their oars to hear the maidens His, too, the strains of battle nobly coming Such as the Highlander shall oft be humming Nor only these-for him the hawthorn hoary The "crimson-tippèd daisy" wore fresh glory, From the "wee cowering beastie" he could borrow A moral strain sublime, A noble tenderness of human sorrow, In wondrous wealth of rhyme. The Tomb of Charlemagne 3365 Oh, but the mountain breeze must have been pleasant Upon the sunburnt brow Of that poetic and triumphant peasant Driving his laureled plow! William Alexander [1824-1911] ON THE DEATHS OF THOMAS CARLYLE Two souls diverse out of our human sight Pass, followed one with love and each with wonder: And one whose eye could smite the night in sunder, Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909] THE OPENING OF THE TOMB OF [742-814] AMID the cloistered gloom of Aachen's aisle A world of action by a single word, Was graven "Carlo-Magno." Regal style Was needed none; that name such thoughts restored As sadden, yet make nobler, men the while. They rolled the marble back. With sudden gasp, Otho looked face to face on Charlemagne. Aubrey De Vere [1788-1846] ELEGY ON WILLIAM COBBETT [1762-1835] O BEAR him where the rain can fall, And in some little lone churchyard, Lay gentle Nature's stern prose bard, Yes! let the wild-flower wed his grave, That bees may murmur near, For Britons honor Cobbett's name, Though rashly oft he spoke; See, o'er his prostrate branches, see! E'en factious hate consents To reverence, in the fallen tree, His British lineaments. Though gnarled the storm-tossed boughs that braved The thunder's gathered scowl, Not always through his darkness raved The storm-winds of the soul. |