Index of First Lines

Index to First Lines

A barking sound the Shepherd hears

A Book came forth of late, called Peter Bell

A bright-haired company of youthful slaves

Abruptly paused the strife;–the field throughout

A dark plume fetch me from yon blasted yew

Adieu, Rydalian Laurels! that have grown

Advance–come forth from thy Tyrolean ground

Aerial Rock–whose solitary brow

A famous man is Robin Hood

Affections lose their object; Time brings forth

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by

A genial hearth, a hospitable board

Age! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers

Ah, think how one compelled for life to abide

A humming bee–a little tinkling rill

Ah, when the Body, round which in love we clung

Ah! where is Palafox? Nor tongue nor pen

Ah, why deceive ourselves! by no mere fit

Aid, glorious Martyrs, from your fields of light

Alas! what boots the long laborious quest

A little onward lend thy guiding hand

All praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed

A love-lorn Maid, at some far-distant time

Ambition–following down this far-famed slope

Amid a fertile region green with wood

Amid the smoke of cities did you pass

Amid this dance of objects sadness steals

Among a grave fraternity of Monks

Among all lovely things my Love had been

Among the dwellers in the silent fields

Among the dwellings framed by birds

Among the mountains were we nursed, loved Stream

A month, sweet Little-ones, is past

An age hath been when Earth was proud

A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags

And has the Sun his flaming chariot driven

And is it among rude untutored Dales

And is this–Yarrow? This the Stream

And, not in vain embodied to the sight

And shall, the Pontiff asks, profaneness flow

And what is Penance with her knotted thong

And what melodious sounds at times prevail

An Orpheus! an Orpheus! yes, Faith may grow bold

Another year!–another deadly blow

A pen–to register; a key

A Pilgrim, when the summer day

A plague on your languages, German and Norse

A pleasant music floats along the Mere

A Poet!–He hath put his heart to school

A point of life between my Parent’s dust

Army of Clouds! ye winged Hosts in troops

A Rock there is whose homely front

A Roman Master stands on Grecian ground

Around a wild and woody hill

Arran! a single-crested Teneriffe

Art thou a Statist in the van

Art thou the bird whom Man loves best

As faith thus sanctified the warrior’s crest

——A simple Child

As indignation mastered grief, my tongue

As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow

A slumber did my spirit seal

As often as I murmur here

As star that shines dependent upon star

As the cold aspect of a sunless way

A Stream, to mingle with your favourite Dee

A sudden conflict rises from the swell

As, when a storm hath ceased, the birds regain

As with the Stream our voyage we pursue

At early dawn, or rather when the air

A Traveller on the skirt of Sarum’s Plain

A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears

Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind

A voice, from long-expecting thousands sent

A volant Tribe of Bards on earth are found

Avon–a precious, an immortal name

A weight of awe, not easy to be borne

A whirl-blast from behind the hill

A wingèd Goddess–clothed in vesture wrought

A Youth too certain of his power to wade

Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made

Beaumont! it was thy wish that I should rear

Before I see another day

Before the world had passed her time of youth

Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf

Beguiled into forgetfulness of care

Behold an emblem of our human mind

Behold a pupil of the monkish gown

Behold her, single in the field

Behold, within the leafy shade

Beloved Vale! I said, when I shall con

Beneath the concave of an April sky

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed

Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound

Be this the chosen site; the virgin sod

Between two sister moorland rills

Bishops and Priests, blessèd are ye, if deep

Black Demons hovering o’er his mitred head

Blest is this Isle–our native Land

Blest Statesman He, whose Mind’s unselfish will

Bold words affirmed, in days when faith was strong

Brave Schill! by death delivered, take thy flight

Bright Flower! whose home is everywhere

Bright was the summer’s noon when quickening steps

Broken in fortune, but in mind entire

——Brook and road

Brook! whose society the Poet seeks

Brugès I saw attired with golden light

But Cytherea, studious to invent

But here no cannon thunders to the gale

But liberty, and triumphs on the Main

But, to outweigh all harm, the sacred Book

But, to remote Northumbria’s royal Hall

But what if One, through grove or flowery mead

But whence came they who for the Saviour Lord

By a blest Husband guided, Mary came

By antique Fancy trimmed–though lowly, bred

By Art’s bold privilege Warrior and War-horse stand

By chain yet stronger must the Soul be tied

By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze

By playful smiles, (alas! too oft

By such examples moved to unbought pains

By their floating mill

By vain affections unenthralled

Call not the royal Swede unfortunate

Calm as an under-current, strong to draw

Calm is all nature as a resting wheel

Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose

Calvert! it must not be unheard by them

Change me, some God, into that breathing rose

Chatsworth! thy stately mansion, and the pride

Child of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream

Child of the clouds! remote from every taint

Clarkson! it was an obstinate hill to climb

Closing the sacred Book which long has fed

Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars

Coldly we spake. The Saxons, overpowered

Come ye–who, if (which Heaven avert!) the Land

Companion! by whose buoyant Spirit cheered

Complacent Fictions were they, yet the same

Dark and more dark the shades of evening fell

Darkness surrounds us; seeking, we are lost

Days passed–and Monte Calvo would not clear

Days undefiled by luxury or sloth

Dear be the Church, that, watching o’er the needs

Dear Child of Nature, let them rail

Dear Fellow-travellers! think not that the Muse

Dear native regions, I foretell

Dear Reliques! from a pit of vilest mould

Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed

Deep is the lamentation! Not alone

Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord

Departed Child! I could forget thee once

Departing summer hath assumed

Deplorable his lot who tills the ground

Desire we past illusions to recall?

Desponding Father! mark this altered bough

Despond who will–I heard a voice exclaim

Destined to war from very infancy

Did pangs of grief for lenient time too keen

Discourse was deemed Man’s noblest attribute

Dishonoured Rock and Ruin! that, by law

Dogmatic Teachers, of the snow-white fur

Doomed as we are our native dust

Doubling and doubling with laborious walk

Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold design

Dread hour! when, upheaved by war’s sulphurous blast

Driven in by Autumn’s sharpening air

Earth has not anything to show more fair

Eden! till now thy beauty had I viewed

Emperors and Kings, how oft have temples rung

England! the time is come when thou should’st wean

Enlightened Teacher, gladly from thy hand

Enough! for see, with dim association

Enough of climbing toil!–Ambition treads

Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook

Enough of rose-bud lips, and eyes

Ere the Brothers through the Gateway

Ere with cold beads of midnight dew

Ere yet our course was graced with social trees

Eternal Lord! eased of a cumbrous load

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky

Even as a dragon’s eye that feels the stress

Even as a river,–partly (it might seem)

Even so for me a Vision sanctified

Even such the contrast that, where’er we move

Even while I speak, the sacred roofs of France

Excuse is needless when with love sincere

Failing impartial measure to dispense

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate

Fair Lady! can I sing of flowers

Fair Land! Thee all men greet with joy; how few

Fair Prime of life! were it enough to gild

Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west

Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless heap

Fame tells of groves–from England far away

Fancy, who leads the pastimes of the glad

Farewell, deep Valley, with thy one rude House

Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain-ground

Far from my dearest Friend, ’tis mine to rove

Far from our home by Grasmere’s quiet Lake

Father!–to God himself we cannot give

Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree

Feel for the wrongs to universal ken

Festivals have I seen that were not names

Fit retribution, by the moral code

Five years have past; five summers, with the length

Flattered with promise of escape

Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale

Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep

For action born, existing to be tried

Forbear to deem the Chronicler unwise

For ever hallowed be this morning fair

For gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes

Forgive, illustrious Country! these deep sighs

Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose base

For thirst of power that Heaven disowns

Forth rushed, from Envy sprung and Self-conceit

For what contend the wise?–for nothing less

Four fiery steeds impatient of the rein

From Bolton’s old monastic tower

From early youth I ploughed the restless Main

From false assumption rose, and, fondly hailed

From Little down to Least, in due degree

From low to high doth dissolution climb

From Nature doth emotion come, and moods

From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled

From Stirling Castle we had seen

From that time forth, Authority in France

From the Baptismal hour, thro’ weal and woe

From the dark chambers of dejection freed

From the fierce aspect of this River, throwing

From the Pier’s head, musing, and with increase

From this deep chasm, where quivering sunbeams play

Frowns are on every Muse’s face

Furl we the sails, and pass with tardy oars

Genius of Raphael! if thy wings

Giordano, verily thy Pencil’s skill

Glad sight wherever new with old

Glide gently, thus for ever glide

Glory to God! and to the Power who came

Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes

Go, faithful Portrait! and where long hath knelt

Grant, that by this unsparing hurricane

Grateful is Sleep, my life in stone bound fast

Great men have been among us; hands that penned

Greta, what fearful listening! when huge stones

Grief, thou hast lost an ever-ready friend

Grieve for the Man who hither came bereft

Had this effulgence disappeared

Hail, orient Conqueror of gloomy Night

Hail to the crown by Freedom shaped–

Hail to the fields–with Dwellings sprinkled o’er

Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour

Hail, Virgin Queen! o’er many an envious bar

Hail, Zaragoza! If with unwet eye

Happy the feeling from the bosom thrown

Hard task! exclaim the undisciplined, to lean

Hark! ’tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest

Harmonious Powers with Nature work

Harp! could’st thou venture, on thy boldest string

Hast thou seen, with flash incessant

——Hast thou then survived

Haydon! let worthier judges praise the skill

Here closed the Tenant of that lonely vale

Here Man more purely lives, less oft doth fall

Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more

Here on their knees men swore: the stones were black

Here pause: the poet claims at least this praise

Here stood an Oak, that long had borne affixed

Here, where, of havoc tired and rash undoing

Her eyes are wild, her head is bare

Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat

High bliss is only for a higher state.

High deeds, O Germans, are to come from you

High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate

High is our calling, Friend!–Creative Art

High on a broad unfertile tract of forest-skirted Down

High on her speculative tower

His simple truths did Andrew glean

Holy and heavenly Spirits as they are

Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba’s Cell

Hope rules a land for ever green

Hope smiled when your nativity was cast

Hopes what are they?–Beads of morning Inscribed upon a Rock

How art thou named? In search of what strange land

How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high

How beautiful when up a lofty height

How beautiful your presence, how benign

How blest the Maid whose heart–yet free

How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright

How disappeared he? Ask the newt and toad

How fast the Marian death-list is unrolled

How profitless the relics that we cull

How richly glows the waters’ breast

How rich that forehead’s calm expanse

How sad a welcome! To each voyager

How shall I paint thee?–Be this naked stone

How soon–alas! did Man, created pure–

How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks

Humanity, delighting to behold

Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast

I am not One who much or oft delight

I come, ye little noisy Crew

I dropped my pen; and listened to the Wind

If from the public way you turn your steps

If Life were slumber on a bed of down

If Nature, for a favourite child

If there be prophets on whose spirits rest

If these brief Records, by the Muses’ Art

If the whole weight of what we think and feel

If this great world of joy and pain

If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven

If thou in the dear love of some one Friend

If to Tradition faith be due

If with old love of you, dear Hills! I share

I grieved for Buonapartè, with a vain

I hate that Andrew Jones; he’ll breed

I have a boy of five years old

I heard (alas! ’twas only in a dream)

I heard a thousand blended notes

I know an aged Man constrained to dwell

I listen–but no faculty of mine

Imagination–ne’er before content

I marvel how Nature could ever find space

I met Louisa in the shade

Immured in Bothwell’s towers, at times the Brave

In Brugès town is many a street

In days of yore how fortunately fared

In desultory walk through orchard grounds

In distant countries have I been

In due observance of an ancient rite

Inland within a hollow vale, I stood

Inmate of a mountain dwelling

In my mind’s eye a Temple, like a cloud

In one of those excursions (may they ne’er

Intent on gathering wool from hedge and brake

In the sweet shire of Cardigan

In these fair vales hath many a Tree

In this still place, remote from men

Intrepid sons of Albion! not by you

In youth from rock to rock I went

I rose while yet the cattle, heat-opprest

I saw a Mother’s eye intensely bent

I saw an aged Beggar in my walk

I saw far off the dark top of a Pine

I saw the figure of a lovely Maid

Is Death, when evil against good has fought

I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold

Is it a reed that’s shaken by the wind

Is then no nook of English ground secure

Is then the final page before me spread

Is there a power that can sustain and cheer

Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill?

I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free

It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown

It is not to be thought of that the Flood

It is the first mild day of March

I travelled among unknown men

——It seems a day

It was a beautiful and silent day

It was a dreary morning when the wheels

It was a moral end for which they fought

It was an April morning, fresh and clear

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

I, who accompanied with faithful pace

Jesu! bless our slender Boat

Jones! as from Calais southward you and I

Just as those final words were penned, the sun broke out in power

Keep for the Young the impassioned smile

Lady! a Pen (perhaps with thy regard

Lady! I rifled a Parnassian Cave

Lady! the songs of Spring were in the grove

Lament! for Diocletian’s fiery sword

Lance, shield, and sword relinquished, at his side

Last night, without a voice, that Vision spake

Let other bards of angels sing

Let thy wheel-barrow alone

Let us quit the leafy arbour

Lie here, without a record of thy worth

Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun

Like a shipwrecked Sailor tost

List, the winds of March are blowing

List–’twas the Cuckoo.–O with what delight

List, ye who pass by Lyulph’s Tower

Lo! in the burning west, the craggy nape

Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they

Long-favoured England! be not thou misled

Long has the dew been dried on tree and lawn

Long time have human ignorance and guilt

Lonsdale! it were unworthy of a Guest

Look at the fate of summer flowers

Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid

Lord of the vale! astounding Flood

Loud is the Vale! the Voice is up

Loving she is, and tractable, though wild

Lo! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance

Lo! where the Moon along the sky

Lowther! in thy majestic Pile are seen

Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells

Lyre! though such power do in thy magic live

Man’s life is like a Sparrow, mighty King

Mark how the feathered tenants of the flood

Mark the concentred hazels that enclose

Meek Virgin Mother, more benign

Men of the Western World! in Fate’s dark book

Men, who have ceased to reverence, soon defy

Mercy and Love have met thee on thy road

Methinks that I could trip o’er heaviest soil

Methinks that to some vacant hermitage

Methinks ’twere no unprecedented feat

Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne

‘Mid crowded obelisks and urns

Mid-noon is past;–upon the sultry mead

Milton! thou should’st be living at this hour

Mine ear has rung, my spirit sunk subdued

Miserrimus! and neither name nor date

Monastic Domes! following my downward way

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes

Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost

Motions and Means, on land and sea at war

My frame hath often trembled with delight

My heart leaps up when I behold

Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands

Near Anio’s stream, I spied a gentle Dove

Never enlivened with the liveliest ray

Next morning Troilus began to clear

No fiction was it of the antique age

No more: the end is sudden and abrupt

No mortal object did these eyes behold

No record tells of lance opposed to lance

Nor scorn the aid which Fancy oft doth lend

Nor shall the eternal roll of praise reject

Nor wants the cause the panic-striking aid

—-Not a breath of air

Not envying Latian shades–if yet they throw

Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep

Not in the lucid intervals of life

Not in the mines beyond the western main

Not, like his great Compeers, indignantly

Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell

Not ‘mid the world’s vain objects that enslave

Not sedentary all: there are who roam

Not seldom, clad in radiant vest

Not so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance

Not the whole warbling grove in concert heard

Not to the clouds, not to the cliff, he flew

Not to the object specially designed

Not utterly unworthy to endure

Not without heavy grief of heart did He

Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright

Now that the farewell tear is dried

Now we are tired of boisterous joy

Now when the primrose makes a splendid show

Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room

Oak of Guernica! Tree of holier power

O blithe New-comer! I have heard

O dearer far than light and life are dear

O’er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain

O’erweening Statesmen have full long relied

O flower of all that springs from gentle blood

Of mortal parents is the Hero born

O for a dirge! But why complain?

O for the help of Angels to complete

O Friend! I know not which way I must look

Oft have I caught, upon a fitful breeze

Oft have I seen, ere Time had ploughed my cheek

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray

Oft is the medal faithful to its trust

O gentle Sleep! do they belong to thee

O happy time of youthful lovers (thus

Oh, for a kindling touch from that pure flame

Oh now that the genius of Bewick were mine

Oh! pleasant exercise of hope and joy

Oh there is blessing in this gentle breeze

Oh what a Wreck! how changed in mien and speech

Oh! what’s the matter? what’s the matter?

O Life! without thy chequered scene

O Lord, our Lord! how wondrously, (quoth she)

O mountain Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot

Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee

Once I could hail (howe’er serene the sky)

Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned

Once more the Church is seized with sudden fear

Once on the top of Tynwald’s formal mound

Once to the verge of yon steep barrier came

One might believe that natural miseries

One morning (raw it was and wet

One who was suffering tumult in his soul

On his morning rounds the Master

O Nightingale! thou surely art

On, loitering Muse–the swift Stream chides us–on

On to Iona!–What can she afford

Open your gates, ye everlasting Piles

O Thou who movest onward with a mind

O Thou! whose fancies from afar are brought

Our bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine

Our walk was far among the ancient trees

Outstretching flameward his upbraided hand

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies

Part fenced by man, part by a rugged steep

Pastor and Patriot!–at whose bidding rise

Patriots informed with Apostolic light

Pause, courteous Spirit!–Balbi supplicates

Pause, Traveller! whosoe’er thou be

Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side

People! your chains are severing link by link

Perhaps some needful service of the State

Pleasures newly found are sweet

Portentous change when History can appear

Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay

Praised be the Rivers, from their mountain springs

Prejudged by foes determined not to spare

Presentiments! they judge not right

Prompt transformation works the novel Lore

Proud were ye, Mountains, when, in times of old

Pure element of waters! wheresoe’er

Queen of the Stars!–so gentle, so benign

Ranging the heights of Scawfell or Black-comb

Rapt above earth by power of one fair face

Realms quake by turns: proud Arbitress of grace

Record we too, with just and faithful pen

Redoubted King, of courage leonine

Reluctant call it was; the rite delayed

Rest, rest, perturbed Earth

Return, Content! for fondly I pursued

Rise!–they have risen: of brave Aneurin ask

Rotha, my Spiritual Child! this head was grey

Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen

Sacred Religion! mother of form and fear.

Sad thoughts, avaunt!–partake we their blithe cheer

Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud

Say, what is Honour?–‘Tis the finest sense

Say, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hills

Scattering, like birds escaped the fowler’s net

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned

Screams round the Arch-druid’s brow the sea-mew–white

Seek who will delight in fable

See the Condemned alone within his cell

See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot

See, where his difficult way that Old Man wins

Serene, and fitted to embrace

Serving no haughty Muse, my hands have here

Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald

Shade of Caractacus, if spirits love

Shame on this faithless heart! that could allow

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

She had a tall man’s height or more

She was a Phantom of delight

Shout, for a mighty Victory is won

Show me the noblest Youth of present time

Shun not this Rite, neglected, yea abhorred

Since risen from ocean, ocean to defy

Six changeful years have vanished since I first

Six months to six years added he remained

Six thousand veterans, practised in War’s game

Small service is true service while it lasts

Smile of the Moon!–for so I name

So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive

Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge–the Mere

Sole listener, Duddon! to the breeze that played

Son of my buried Son, while thus thy hand

Soon did the Almighty Giver of all rest

Spade! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands

Stay, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs

Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay

Stay near me–do not take thy flight

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God

Strange fits of passion have I known

Stranger! this hillock of mis-shapen stones

Stretched on the dying Mother’s lap, lies dead

Such age how beautiful! O Lady bright

Such fruitless questions may not long beguile

Surprised by joy–impatient as the Wind

Sweet Flower! belike one day to have

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower

Sweet is the holiness of Youth”–so felt

Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel

Sylph was it? or a Bird more bright

Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, take

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense

Tell me ye Zephyrs! that unfold

Tenderly do we feel by Nature’s Law

Thanks for the lessons of this Spot–fit school

That happy gleam of vernal eyes

That heresies should strike (if truth be scanned

That is work of waste and ruin

That way look, my Infant, lo

The Baptist might have been ordained to cry

The Bard–whose soul is meek as dawning day

The captive Bird was gone;–to cliff or moor

The cattle crowding round this beverage clear

The Cock is crowing

The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love

The Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair

The days are cold, the nights are long

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink

The embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine

The encircling ground, in native turf arrayed

The fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade

The feudal Keep, the bastions of Cohorn

The fields which with covetous spirit we sold

The floods are roused, and will not soon be weary

The forest huge of ancient Caledon

The formal World relaxes her cold chain

The gallant Youth, who may have gained

The gentlest Poet, with free thoughts endowed

The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains

The God of Love–ah, benedicite

The imperial Consort of the Fairy-king

The imperial Stature, the colossal stride

The Kirk of Ulpha to the pilgrim’s eye

The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor

The Land we from our fathers had in trust

The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill

The leaves were fading when to Esthwaite’s banks

The linnet’s warble, sinking towards a close

The little hedgerow birds

The lovely Nun (submissive, but more meek

The Lovers took within this ancient grove

The martial courage of a day is vain

The massy Ways, carried across these heights

The Minstrels played their Christmas tune

The most alluring clouds that mount the sky

The old inventive Poets, had they seen

The oppression of the tumult–wrath and scorn

The peace which others seek they find

The pensive Sceptic of the lonely vale

The pibroch’s note, discountenanced or mute

The post-boy drove with fierce career

The power of Armies is a visible thing

The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed

The Prelude or, Growth of a Poet’s Mind: Advertisement

There are no colours in the fairest sky

There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear

There is a change–and I am poor

There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine

There is a little unpretending Rill

There is a pleasure in poetic pains

There is a Thorn–it looks so old

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale

There is an Eminence,–of these our hills

There never breathed a man who, when his life

There! said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride

There’s George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore

There’s more in words than I can teach

There’s not a nook within this solemn Pass

There’s something in a flying horse

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

The Roman Consul doomed his sons to die

The Sabbath bells renew the inviting peal

The saintly Youth has ceased to rule, discrowned

These times strike monied worldlings with dismay

These Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live

The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo

The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said

——The sky is overcast

The soaring lark is blest as proud

The Spirit of Antiquity–enshrined

The star which comes at close of day to shine

The stars are mansions built by Nature’s hand

The struggling Rill insensibly is grown

The Sun has long been set

The sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest

The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire

The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields

The tears of man in various measure gush

The troop will be impatient: let us hie

The turbaned Race are poured in thickening swarms

The unremitting voice of nightly streams

The valley rings with mirth and joy

The Vested Priest before the Altar stands

The Virgin Mountain, wearing like a Queen

The Voice of song from distant lands shall call

The wind is now thy organist;–a clank

The woman-hearted Confessor prepares

The world forsaken, all its busy cares

The world is too much with us; late and soon

They called Thee MERRY ENGLAND, in old time

They dreamt not of a perishable home

The Young-ones gathered in from hill and dale

They seek, are sought; to daily battle led

They–who have seen the noble Roman’s scorn

This Height a ministering Angel might select

This Land of Rainbows spanning glens whose walls

This Lawn, a carpet all alive

This Spot–at once unfolding sight so fair

Tho’ searching damps and many an envious flaw

Those breathing Tokens of your kind regard

Those had given earliest notice, as the lark

Those old credulities, to nature dear

Those silver clouds collected round the sun

Those words were uttered as in pensive mood

Though I beheld at first with blank surprise

Though joy attend Thee orient at the birth

Though many suns have risen and set

Though narrow be that old Man’s cares, and near

Though the bold wings of Poesy affect

Though the torrents from their fountains

Though to give timely warning and deter

Thou look’st upon me, and dost fondly think

Thou sacred Pile! whose turrets rise

Threats come which no submission may assuage

Three years she grew in sun and shower

Through shattered galleries, ‘mid roofless halls

Thus all things lead to Charity secured

Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving much

Thus is the storm abated by the craft

Thy functions are ethereal

‘Tis eight o’clock,–a clear March night

‘Tis gone–with old belief and dream

‘Tis He whose yester-evening’s high disdain

‘Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined

‘Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold

‘Tis said that to the brow of yon fair hill

‘Tis said, that some have died for love

‘Tis spent–this burning day of June

To a good Man of most dear memory

To appease the Gods; or public thanks to yield

To barren heath, bleak moor, and quaking fen

To every Form of being is assigned

To kneeling Worshippers no earthly floor

Too frail to keep the lofty vow

To public notice, with reluctance strong

Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men

Tradition, be thou mute! Oblivion, throw

Tranquillity! the sovereign aim wert thou

Troubled long with warring notions

True is it that Ambrosio Salinero

‘Twas Summer, and the sun had mounted high

Two Voices are there; one is of the sea

Under the shadow of a stately Pile

Ungrateful Country, if thou e’er forget

Unless to Peter’s Chair the viewless wind

Unquiet Childhood here by special grace

Untouched through all severity of cold

Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away

Up to the throne of God is borne

Up with me! up with me into the clouds

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books

Urged by Ambition, who with subtlest skill

Uttered by whom, or how inspired–designed

Vallombrosa! I longed in thy shadiest wood

Vallombrosa–I longed in thy shadiest wood

Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent

Wait, prithee, wait! this answer Lesbia threw

Wanderer! that stoop’st so low, and com’st so near

Wansfell! this Household has a favoured lot

Ward of the Law!–dread Shadow of a King

Was it to disenchant, and to undo

Was the aim frustrated by force or guile

Watch, and be firm! for, soul-subduing vice

Weak is the will of Man, his judgment blind

We can endure that He should waste our lands

Weep not, beloved Friends! nor let the air

We gaze–nor grieve to think that we must die

We had a female Passenger who came

We have not passed into a doleful City

Well have yon Railway Labourers to THIS ground

Well may’st thou halt–and gaze with brightening eye

Well sang the Bard who called the grave, in strains

Well worthy to be magnified are they

Were there, below, a spot of holy ground

We saw, but surely, in the motley crowd

We talked with open heart, and tongue

We walked along, while bright and red

What aim had they, the Pair of Monks, in size

What aspect bore the Man who roved or fled

What awful perspective! while from our sight

What beast in wilderness or cultured field

What beast of chase hath broken from the cover?

What crowd is this? what have we here! we must not pass it by

What He–who, ‘mid the kindred throng

What heavenly smiles! O Lady mine

What if our numbers barely could defy

What is good for a bootless bene?

What know we of the Blest above

What lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose?

What mischief cleaves to unsubdued regret

What need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay

What sounds are those, Helvellyn, that are heard

What strong allurement draws, what spirit guides

What though the Accused, upon his own appeal

What though the Italian pencil wrought not here

What way does the wind come? What way does he go?

What, you are stepping westward?–Yea

When Alpine Vales threw forth a suppliant cry

Whence that low voice?–A whisper from the heart

When Contemplation, like the night-calm felt

When, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn

When first, descending from the moorlands

When haughty expectations prostrate lie

When here with Carthage Rome to conflict came

When human touch (as monkish books attest)

When I have borne in memory what has tamed

When in the antique age of bow and spear

When, looking on the present face of things

When Love was born of heavenly line

When Philoctetes in the Lemnian isle

When Ruth was left half desolate

When Severn’s sweeping flood had overthrown

When the soft hand of sleep had closed the latch

When thy great soul was freed from mortal chains

When, to the attractions of the busy world

Where are they now, those wanton Boys?

Where art thou, my beloved Son

Where be the noisy followers of the game

Where be the temples which, in Britain’s Isle

Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends

Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?

Where lies the truth? has Man, in wisdom’s creed

Where long and deeply hath been fixed the root

Where towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds

Where will they stop, those breathing powers

While Anna’s peers and early playmates tread

While beams of orient light shoot wide and high

While flowing rivers yield a blameless sport

While from the purpling east departs

While Merlin paced the Cornish sands

While not a leaf seems faded; while the fields

While poring Antiquarians search the ground

While the poor gather round, till the end of time

While thus from theme to theme the Historian passed

Who but hails the sight with pleasure

Who but is pleased to watch the moon on high

Who comes–with rapture greeted, and caressed

Who fancied what a pretty sight

Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he

Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings–

Who ponders National events shall find

Who rashly strove thy Image to portray?

Who rises on the banks of Seine

Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce

Who weeps for strangers? Many wept

Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant

Why cast ye back upon the Gallic shore

Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through this Isle

Why should we weep or mourn, Angelic boy

Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled

Why stand we gazing on the sparkling Brine

Why, William, on that old grey stone

Wild Redbreast! hadst thou at Jemima’s lip

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe

With copious eulogy in prose or rhyme

With each recurrence of this glorious morn

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the sky

Within her gilded cage confined

Within our happy Castle there dwelt One

Within the mind strong fancies work

With little here to do or see

With nodding plumes, and lightly drest

With sacrifice before the rising morn

With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh

Woe to the Crown that doth the Cowl obey

Woe to you, Prelates! rioting in ease

Woman! the Power who left his throne on high

Wouldst thou be taught when sleep has taken flight

Would that our scrupulous Sires had dared to leave

Ye Apennines! with all your fertile vales

Ye brood of conscience–Spectres! that frequent

Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn

Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth

Ye shadowy Beings, that have rights and claims

Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace

Yes, if the intensities of hope and fear

Yes, it was the mountain Echo

Yes! thou art fair, yet be not moved

Yes, though He well may tremble at the sound

Ye Storms, resound the praises of your King

Yet are they here the same unbroken knot

Yet many a Novice of the cloistral shade

Yet more,–round many a Convent’s blazing fire

Ye, too, must fly before a chasing hand

Ye Trees! whose slender roots entwine

Yet Truth is keenly sought for, and the wind

Yet, yet, Biscayans! we must meet our Foes

Ye vales and hills whose beauty hither drew

You call it, “Love lies bleeding,”–so you may

You have heard “a Spanish Lady

Young England–what is then become of Old