On Miranda’s Leaving the Country by William Somervile
The sun departing, hides his head, The lily and the rose are dead, The birds forget to sing; The cooing turtles now no more Repeat their amorous ditties o’er, But watch the approaching Spring. For soon the merry month of May Restores the bright all-cheering ray; Soft notes charm every grove: The flow’rs ambrosial incense […]
Mahomet Ali Beg; Or, the Faithful Minister of State by William Somervile
OR, THE FAITHFUL MINISTER OF STATE . A LONG descent and noble blood Is but a vain fantastic good, Unless with inbred virtues join’d, An honest, brave, and generous mind All that our ancestors have done, Nations reliev’d and battles won, The trophies of each bloody field, Can only then true honour yield, When, like […]
Liberty, and Love; or, the Two Sparrows by William Somervile
A SPARROW and his mate, (Believe me, gentle Kate!) Once lov’d like I and you; With mutual ardour join’d, No turtles e’er so kind, So constant and so true. They hopp’d from spray to spray; They bill’d, they chirp’d all day, They cuddled close all night; To bliss they wak’d each morn, In every bush […]
Hunting Song by William Somervile
Behold , my friend! the rosy-finger’d morn With blushes on her face, Peeps o’er yon azure hill; Rich gems the trees enchase, Pearls from each bush distill; Arise, arise, and hail the light new-born. Hark! hark! the merry horn calls, Come away: Quit, quit thy downy bed; Break from Amynta’s arms; Oh! let it ne’er […]
Hudibras and Milton Reconciled by William Somervile
TO SIR ADOLPHUS OUGHTON . Dear Knight! how great a drudge is he Who would excel in poetry; And yet how few have learn’d the art To’ inform the head or touch the heart! Some with a dry and barren brain, Poor rogues! like costive lapdogs strain; While others with a flux of wit The […]
Hobbinol; or The Rural Games by William Somervile
CANTO I. What old Menalcas at his feast reveal’d, I sing; strange feats of antient prowess, deeds Of high renown, while all his listening guests With eager Joy receiv’d the pleasing tale. O thou who late on Vaga’s flowery banks Slumbering secure, with Stirom well bedew’d, Fallacious cask, in sacred dreams wert taught By ancient […]
Hobbinol; or The Rural Games – Canto 3 by William Somervile
CANTO III. Though some of old, and some of modern date, Penurious, their victorious heroes fed With barren praise alone; yet thou, my Muse! Benevolent with more indulgent eyes Behold the’ immortal Hobbinol; reward With due regalement his triumphant toils. Let Quixote’s hardy courage, and renown, With Sancho’s prudent care be meetly join’d. O thou […]
Hobbinol; or The Rural Games – Canto 2 by William Somervile
CANTO II. Long while an universal hubbub loud, Deafening each ear, had drown’d each accent mild; Till biting taunts, and harsh opprobrious words Vile utterance found. How weak are human minds! How impotent to stem the swelling tide, And without insolence enjoy success! The vale-inhabitants, proud, and elate With victory, know no restraint, but give […]
Hare-hunting by William Somervile
Hark! from yon covert, where those tow’ring oaks Above the humble copse aspiring rise, What glorious triumphs burst in ev’ry gale Upon our ravished ears! The hunters shout, The clanging horns swell their sweet-winding notes, The pack wide-op’ning load the trembling air With various melody; from tree to tree The propagated cry redoubling bounds, And […]
Fortune-Hunter, The – Canto 5 by William Somervile
CANTO V. I F Heav’n the thriving trader bless, What fawning crowds about him press! But if he fail, distress’d and poor, His mob of friends are seen no more; For all men hold it meet to fly The’ infectious breath of Poverty. Poor Frank, deserted and forlorn, Curses the day that he was born: […]
Fortune-Hunter, The – Canto 3 by William Somervile
CANTO III. As there is something in a face, An air, and a peculiar grace, Which boldest painters cannot trace, That more than feature, shape, or hair, Distinguishes the happy fair, Strikes every eye, and makes her known A ruling toast through all the town; So in each action ’tis success That gives it all […]
Fortune-Hunter, The – Canto 1 by William Somervile
IN FIVE CANTOS CANTO I . Some authors, more abstruse than wise, Friendship confine to stricter ties, Require exact conformity In person, age, and quality Their humours, principles, and wit Must, like Exchequer tallies, hit: — Others, less scrupulous, opine, That hands and hearts in love may join, Though different inclinations sway, For Nature’s more […]
For the Lute by William Somervile
Gently , my lute! move every string, Soft as my sighs reveal my pain, While I, in plaintive numbers, sing Of slighted vows and cold disdam. In vain her airs, in vain her art, In vain she frowns, when I appear; Thy notes shall melt her frozen heart She cannot hate if she can hear. […]
First let the kennel be the huntsman’s care by William Somervile
THE KENNEL First let the kennel be the huntsman’s care, Upon some little eminence erect, And fronting to the ruddy dawn; its courts On either hand wide opening to receive The sun’s all-cheering beams, when mild he shines, And gilds the mountain-tops. For much the pack (Roused from their dark alcoves) delight to stretch And […]
Field Sports by William Somervile
TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE. Once more, great Prince! permit an humble bard Prostrate to pay his homage at your feet, Then, like the morning lark from the low ground Towering aloft, sublime, to soar and sing, Sing the heart-cheering pleasure of the fields, The choice delight of heroes and of kings. In earlier […]
Epistle from Mr. Somerville, An by William Somervile
Near fair Avona’s silver tide, Whose waves in soft meanders glide, I read, to the delighted swams, Your jocund songs and rural strains. Smooth as her streams your numbers flow; Your thoughts in varied beauties show, Like flow’rs that on her borders grow. While I survey, with ravish’d eyes, His friendly gift, my valued prize, […]
Chase, The – Book 1 by William Somervile
BOOK I. The Chase I sing, hounds, and their various breed, And no less various use. O thou great Prince! Whom Cambria’s towering hills proclaim their lord, Deign thou to hear my bold, instructive song. While grateful citizens with pompous show Rear the triumphal arch, rich with the’ exploits Of thy illustrious house; while virgins […]
All-Accomplished Rover by William Somervile
Man, of precarious science vain, Treats other creatures with disdain; Nor Pug nor Shock has common sense, Nor even Poll the least pretence, Though she prates better than us all, To be accounted rational. The brute creation here below, It seems, is Nature’s puppet show; But clock-work all, and mere machine, What can these idle […]
Advice to the Ladies by William Somervile
Who now regards Chloris, her tears, and her whining, Her sighs, and fond wishes, and aukward repining? What a pother is here, with her amorous glances, Soft fragments of Ovid, and scrapes of romances! An nice prude at fifteen! and a romp in decay! Cold December affects the sweet blossoms of May; To fawn in […]
Address to His Elbow-Chair, New Cloath’d, An by William Somervile
NEW-CLOTHED . M Y dear companion, and my faithful friend! If Orpheus taught the listening oaks to bend; If stones and rubbish, at Amphion’s call, Danc’d into form, and built the Theban wall, Why should’st not thou attend my humble lays, And hear my grateful harp resound thy praise? True, thou art spruce and fine, […]
A Padlock for the Mouth by William Somervile
JACK Dimple was a merry blade, Young, amorous, witty, and well made; ” Discreet!” — Hold, sir, — nay, as I live, My friend, you’re too inquisitive: Discretion, all men must agree, Is a most shining quality, Which, like leaf-gold, makes a great show, And thinly spread sets off a beau: But, sir, to put […]
“Young England–What Is Then Become Of Old” by William Wordsworth
YOUNG ENGLAND–what is then become of Old Of dear Old England? Think they she is dead, Dead to the very name? Presumption fed On empty air! That name will keep its hold In the true filial bosom’s inmost fold For ever.–The Spirit of Alfred, at the head Of all who for her rights watched, toiled […]
Yew-Trees by William Wordsworth
There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, Which to this day stands single, in the midst Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore: Not loathe to furnish weapons for the Bands Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched To Scotland’s heaths; or those that crossed the sea And drew their sounding bows […]
“Yes! Thou Art Fair, Yet Be Not Moved” by William Wordsworth
YES! thou art fair, yet be not moved To scorn the declaration, That sometimes I in thee have loved My fancy’s own creation. Imagination needs must stir; Dear Maid, this truth believe, Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive. Be pleased that nature made thee fit To feed my heart’s devotion, By […]
Yes, It Was The Mountain Echo by William Wordsworth
YES, it was the mountain Echo, Solitary, clear, profound, Answering to the shouting Cuckoo, Giving to her sound for sound! Unsolicited reply To a babbling wanderer sent; Like her ordinary cry, Like–but oh, how different! Hears not also mortal Life? Hear not we, unthinking Creatures! Slaves of folly, love, or strife– Voices of two different […]
Yarrow Visited by William Wordsworth
And is this -Yarrow? -This the stream Of which my fancy cherished So faithfully, a waking dream, An image that hath perished? O that some minstrel’s harp were near To utter notes of gladness And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness! Yet why? -a silvery current flows With uncontrolled […]
Yarrow Unvisited by William Wordsworth
. From Stirling castle we had seen The mazy Forth unravelled; Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, And with the Tweed had travelled; And when we came to Clovenford, Then said my “winsome Marrow ,” “Whate’er betide, we’ll turn aside, And see the Braes of Yarrow.” “Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, Who […]
Yarrow Revisited by William Wordsworth
The gallant Youth, who may have gained, Or seeks, a “winsome Marrow,” Was but an Infant in the lap When first I looked on Yarrow; Once more, by Newark’s Castle-gate Long left without a warder, I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, Great Minstrel of the Border! Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, […]
Written With A Slate Pencil On A Stone, On The Side Of The Mountain Of Black Comb by William Wordsworth
STAY, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs On this commodious Seat! for much remains Of hard ascent before thou reach the top Of this huge Eminence,–from blackness named, And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land, A favourite spot of tournament and war! But thee may no such boisterous visitants Molest; may gentle breezes fan […]
Written Upon A Blank Leaf In “The Complete Angler.” by William Wordsworth
WHILE flowing rivers yield a blameless sport, Shall live the name of Walton: Sage benign! Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort To reverend watching of each still report That Nature utters from her rural shrine. Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline, He found the longest summer day […]
Written In Very Early Youth by William Wordsworth
CALM is all nature as a resting wheel. The kine are couched upon the dewy grass; The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass, Is cropping audibly his later meal: Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal O’er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky. Now, in this blank of things, a harmony, […]
Written in March by William Wordsworth
The cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, […]
Written in London. September, 1802 by William Wordsworth
O Friend! I know not which way I must look For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, To think that now our life is only drest For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, Or groom! – We must run glittering like a brook In the open sunshine, or we are unblest: The wealthiest man among […]
Written In Germany On One Of The Coldest Days Of The Century by William Wordsworth
A PLAGUE on your languages, German and Norse! Let me have the song of the kettle; And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse That gallops away with such fury and force On this dreary dull plate of black metal. See that Fly,–a disconsolate creature! perhaps A child of the field or the […]
Written In A Blank Leaf Of Macpherson’s Ossian by William Wordsworth
OFT have I caught, upon a fitful breeze, Fragments of far-off melodies, With ear not coveting the whole, A part so charmed the pensive soul. While a dark storm before my sight Was yielding, on a mountain height Loose vapours have I watched, that won Prismatic colours from the sun; Nor felt a wish that […]
With Ships the Sea was Sprinkled Far and Nigh by William Wordsworth
With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed; Some lying fast at anchor in the road, Some veering up and down, one knew not why. A goodly vessel did I then espy Come like a giant from a haven broad; And lustily along the bay she […]
With How Sad Steps, O Moon, Thou Climb’st the Sky by William Wordsworth
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the sky, “How silently, and with how wan a face!” Where art thou? Thou so often seen on high Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph’s race! Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath’s a sigh Which they would stifle, move at such a pace! The northern Wind, to call […]
Who Fancied What A Pretty Sight by William Wordsworth
WHO fancied what a pretty sight This Rock would be if edged around With living snow-drops? circlet bright! How glorious to this orchard-ground! Who loved the little Rock, and set Upon its head this coronet? Was it the humour of a child? Or rather of some gentle maid, Whose brows, the day that she was […]
Where Lies The Land To Which Yon Ship Must Go? by William Wordsworth
WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship must go? Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, Festively she puts forth in trim array; Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow? What boots the inquiry?–Neither friend nor foe She cares for; let her travel where she may, She finds familiar names, a […]
When To The Attractions Of The Busy World by William Wordsworth
WHEN, to the attractions of the busy world, Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen A habitation in this peaceful Vale, Sharp season followed of continual storm In deepest winter; and, from week to week, Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill At a short distance from […]