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CLXI

ON KING ARTHUR'S ROUND TABLE,

AT WINCHESTER.

WHE

WHERE Venta's Norman castle still uprears &
Its raftered hall, that o'er the

THOMAS WARTON

1728-1790

grassy foss

And scattered flinty fragments clad in moss,
On yonder steep in naked state appears ;

High-hung remains, the pride of warlike years,
Old Arthur's Board: on the capacious round

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Some British pen has sketched the names renowned,
In marks obscure, of his immortal peers.

Though joined by magic skill, with many a rime, c
The Druid frame, unhonoured, falls a prey

To the slow vengeance of the wizard Time,
And fade the British characters away;

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Yet Spenser's page, that chaunts in verse sublime
Those chiefs, shall live, unconscious of decay.

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CLXII

TO THE RIVER LODON.

AH! what a weary race my feet have run,

Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned,
And thought my way was all through fairy ground,
Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun:

Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun!
While pensive Memory traces back the round
Which fills the varied interval between;

Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene.
Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure
No more return, to cheer my evening road!
Yet still one joy remains,-that not obscure,
Nor useless, all my vacant days have flowed,

From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature;
Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestowed.

WILLIAM
COWPER

1731-1800

CLXIII

TO MRS. UNWIN.

MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,

Such aid from heaven as some have feigned
they drew,

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
And undebased by praise of meaner things;

That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings,
may
record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,

I

And that immortalizes whom it sings.

But thou hast little need. There is a Book
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright;—
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;
And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.

ANNA SEWARD

1747-1809

I

CLXIV

DECEMBER MORNING.

LOVE to rise ere gleams the tardy light,

Winter's pale dawn; and as warm fires illume,
And cheerful tapers shine around the room,
Through misty windows bend my musing sight,
Where, round the dusky lawn, the mansions white,
With shutters closed, peer faintly through the gloom
That slow recedes; while yon grey spires assume,
Rising from their dark pile, an added height
By indistinctness given.-Then to decree
The grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold
To friendship or the Muse, or seek with glee
Wisdom's rich page. O hours more worth than gold,
By whose blest use we lengthen life, and, free
From drear decays of age, outlive the old !

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CLXV

WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF SPRING.

HE garlands fade that Spring so lately wove,

THE

Each simple flower, which she had nursed in dew, Anemonies, that spangled every grove,

The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue.

No more shall violets linger in the dell,

Or purple orchis variegate the plain,

Till Spring again shall call forth every bell,

And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. A
Ah, poor humanity! so frail, so fair

Are the fond visions of thy early day,

Till tyrant passion and corrosive care,
Bid all thy fairy colours fade away.

Another May new buds and flowers shall bring:..
Ah! why has happiness no second Spring?

SHOU

CLXVI

HOULD the lone wanderer, fainting on his way,
Rest for a moment of the sultry hours,

And though his path through thorns and roughness lay,
Pluck the wild rose or woodbine's gadding flowers,
Weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree,
The sense of sorrow he awhile may lose :
So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy!

So charmed my way with friendship and the Muse.
But darker now grows life's unhappy day,
Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come;
Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away,
And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb,
And points my wishes to that tranquil shore,
Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more.

SMITH

1749-1806

WILLIAM ROSCOE 1753-1831

CLXVII

TO MY BOOKS ON PARTING WITH THEM.

As

S one who, destined from his friends to part,
Regrets his loss, yet hopes again erewhile
To share their converse and enjoy their smile,
And tempers as he may affliction's dart,-
Thus, loved associates! chiefs of elder Art!
Teachers of wisdom! who could once beguile
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil,
I now resign you: nor with fainting heart;
For pass a few short years, or days, or hours,
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold,
And all your sacred fellowship restore;
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers,
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold,
And kindred spirits meet to part no more.

HELEN MARIA
WILLIAMS

1762-1828

O

CLXVIII

TO HOPE.

EVER skilled to wear the form we love!

To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart;
Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove
The lasting sadness of an aching heart.
Thy voice, benign enchantress ! let me hear;
Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom,—
That fancy's radiance, friendship's precious tear,
Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom.
But come not glowing in the dazzling ray
Which once with dear illusions charmed my eye;
O, strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way
The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die:
Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast,
That asks not happiness, but longs for rest.

CLXIX

ON ECHO AND SILENCE.

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SIR SAMUEL
EGERTON

BRYDGES

в

1762-1837

N eddying course when leaves began to fly,
And Autumn in her lap the store to strew,
As 'mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo,
Through glens untrod and woods that frowned on high,
Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy !—
And lo, she's gone !-in robe of dark green hue,
s
'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew :

For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky!
In shade affrighted Silence melts away.

Not so her sister!-hark, for onward still
With far-heard step she takes her listening way,
Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill!
Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play
With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill.

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CLXX

TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence,

Lulling to sad repose the weary sense,
The faint pang stealest unperceived away;
On thee I rest my only hope at last,

And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear

That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,

I

may look back on every sorrow past,

And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile ;-
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,
Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower
Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while :-
Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure,
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES

1762-1850

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