A barking sound the shepherd hears.
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
A poet !-He hath put his heart to school
A point of life between my parents' dust
A rock there is whose homely front
-A simple child
A slumber did my spirit seal
A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain
All praise the likeness by thy skill pourtrayed.
Amid the smoke of cities did you pass
An age hath been when earth was proud
An Orpheus! an Orpheus !—yes, faith may grow bold
And is this-Yarrow?-This the stream
Another year!—another deadly blow
Art thou a Statesman, in the van
Art thou the bird whom man loves best
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears
Behold her, single in the field
Behold, within the leafy shade
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Blest is this isle-our native land
Bright flower, whose home is everywhere!
-Brook and road
By their floating mill
Calvert! it must not be unheard by them.
Clarkson! it was an obstinate hill to climb
Come ye-who, if (which Heaven avert !) the land
Content with calmer scenes around us spread
Dear child of nature, let them rail!
Dear to the loves, and to the graces vowed
Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord!
Departing summer hath assumed
Earth has not anything to show more fair.
England! the time is come when thou should'st wean
Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky!
Fair is the swan, whose majesty, prevailing
Fair star of evening, splendour of the west
Farewell, thou little nook of mountain-ground.
Five years have past; five summers, with the length
From low to high doth dissolution climb
From Stirling Castle we had seen
Go, faithful portrait! and where long hath knelt
-Hast thou then survived
Here pause: the poet claims at least this praise
High in the breathless hall the minstrel sate
High is our calling, friend!-Creative art
Hope rules a land for ever green
I am not one who much or oft delight
I have a boy of five years old
I heard a thousand blended notes
I saw an aged beggar in my walk
I saw far off the dark top of a pine
I shiver, spirit fierce and bold
I thought of thee, my partner and my guide
I travelled among unknown men
I've watched you now a full half-hour
I wandered lonely as a cloud
I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged pile!
I watch, and long have watched, with calm regret
If from the public way you turn your steps
If nature, for a favourite child
If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven
Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood
In these fair vales hath many a tree
In the sweet shire of Cardigan
In this still place, remote from men
In youth from rock to rock I went
Is it a reed that's shaken by the wind
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free
It is not to be thought of that the flood
It is the first mild day of March
Lance, shield, and sword relinquished-at his side
Lie here, without a record of thy worth
Life with yon lambs, like day, is just begun
Loud is the vale! the voice is up
Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour
Most sweet is it with un-uplifted eyes
My heart leaps up when I behold
Nay, traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands
Nor can I not believe but that hereby
Not in the lucid intervals of life.
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room
O blithe new-comer! I have heard
O dearer far than light and life are dear
O friend! I know not which way I must look
O nightingale! thou surely art
O thou! whose fancies from afar are brought
Oft have I caught, upon a fitful breeze
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray
Oh! pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
Once did she hold the gorgeous east in fee
On his morning rounds the master
On man, on nature, and on human life
Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies
Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side
Pleasures newly found are sweet
Return, content! for fondly I pursued
Rotha, my spiritual child! this head was grey.
Sacred religion, "mother of form and fear"
Scorn not the sonnet; critic, you have frowned
See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built cot.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
She had a tall man's height or more.
She was a phantom of delight
Six thousand veterans practised in war's game.
Small service is true service while it lasts.
Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played
Stay near me-do not take thy flight!
Stern daughter of the voice of God
Strange fits of passion have I known
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink
The gallant youth, who may have gained.
The knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor
The little hedgerow birds
The minstrels played their Christmas tune
The pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute
The post-boy drove with fierce career
The sun, that seemed so mildly to retire.
The world is too much with us; late and soon
There is a flower, the lesser celandine
There is a yew-tree, pride of Lorton vale
"There!" said a stripling, pointing with meet pride
There's not a nook within this solemn pass
There was a boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
There was a roaring in the wind all night
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream
These times touch monied worldlings with dismay .
These tourists, Heaven preserve us ! needs must live
They dreamt not of a perishable home
Though I beheld at first with blank surprise
Though many suns have risen and set
Three years she grew in sun and shower
Too frail to keep the lofty vow.
Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men !
Tranquillity! the sovereign aim wert thou
'Twas summer, and the sun had mounted high.
Two voices are there; one is of the sea
Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away!
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books
Up with me! up with me into the clouds !
Vanguard of liberty, ye men of Kent
Wansfell! this household has a favoured lot
We talked with open heart, and tongue
We walked along, while bright and red
What crowd is this? what have we here! we must not pass it by
"What is good for a bootless bene?"
What lovelier home could gentle fancy choose?
"What, you are stepping westward?"-"Yea"
When first, descending from the moorlands
When I have borne in memory what has tamed
When Ruth was left half desolate
When, to the attractions of the busy world
Where are they now, those wanton boys?
Where art thou, my beloved son
Where lies the land to which yon ship must go?
Where towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds
Where will they stop, those breathing powers:
Who is the happy warrior? Who is he
Why, William, on that old grey stone
Wings have we,-and as far as we can go
Wisdom and spirit of the universe!
Within our happy castle there dwelt one
With sacrifice, before the rising morn
Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye! .
Printed by R. & R. CLARK, Edinburgh.
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