Reflections on having left a Place of Retirement. Blest hour! it was a luxury to be! 1 Hymn in the Vale of Chamouni. Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines. Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. The Three Graves. A mother is a mother still, The Visit of the Gods. Never, believe me, The Knight's Tomb. The Knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust; His soul is with the saints, I trust. On Taking Leave of. 1817. To know, to esteem, to love- and then to part, Epitaph on an Infant. Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade, Dejection. An Ode. Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud, And thence flows all that charms, or ear or sight, All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colors a suffusion from that light. Reproof. Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends! A Christmas Carol. Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn. Cologne. The river Rhine, it is well known, But tell me, nymphs! what power divine Wallenstein. Part i. Act ii. Sc. 4. The intelligible forms of ancient poets, The power, the beauty, and the majesty, That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain, Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, Or chasms and watery depths; all these have vanished; They live no longer in the faith of reason. The Death of Wallenstein. Act v. Sc. 1. Clothing the palpable and familiar With golden exhalations of the dawn. Of Act v. Sc. 1. Often do the spirits great events stride on before the events, And in to-day already walks to-morrow. To a Lady, OFFENDED BY A SPORTIVE OBSERVATION THAT WOMEN HAVE NO SOULS What outward form and feature are He guesseth but in part; But what within is good and fair He seeth with the heart. ROBERT SOUTHEY. 1774-1843. Thalaba. How beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain, In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine The desert-circle spreads, Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. The Curse of Kehama. Canto x. They sin who tell us love can die. All others are but vanity. CHARLES LAMB. 1775-1834. Old Familiar Faces. I have had playmates, I have had companions, Detached Thoughts on Books. Books which are no books. THOMAS CAMPBELL. 1777-1844. PLEASURES OF HOPE. Part i. Line 7. 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue. Line 359. O Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save. Line 381. Hope for a season bade the world farewell, O'er Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, |