Fourteen Sonnets

By Bowles, William Lisle

Book Id: WPLBN0000679651
Format Type: PDF eBook
File Size: 139,430 KB.
Reproduction Date: 2007

Title:	Fourteen Sonnets
Author:	Bowles, William Lisle
Volume:
Language:	English
Subject:	Fiction, Poetry, Verse drama
Collections:	Poetry Collection
Historic Publication Date:
Publisher:	World Public Library Association


Citation APA MLA Chicago Bowles, W. L. (n.d.). Fourteen Sonnets. Retrieved from http://gutenberg.cc/

Description
Poetry

Excerpt
Excerpt: AS slow I climb the cliff's ascending side, // Much musing on the track of terror past // When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast // Pleas'd I look back, and view the tranquil tide, // That laves the pebbled shore; and now the beam // Of evening smiles on the grey battlement, // And yon forsaken tow'r, that time has rent. // The lifted oar far off with silver gleam // Is touch'd and the hush'd billows seem to sleep. // Sooth'd by the scene, ev'n thus on sorrow's breast // A kindred stillness steals and bids her rest; // Whilst the weak winds that sigh along the deep, // The ear, like lullabies of pity, meet, // Singing the saddest notes of farewell sweet. // II. Written at Bamborough Castle. // YE holy tow'rs, that crown the azure deep, // Still may ye shade the wave-worn rock sublime, // Though, hurrying silent by, relentless Time // Assail you, and the winter Whirlwind's sweep! // For far from blazing Grandeur's crowded halls, // Here Charity hath fix'd her chosen seat, // Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat, // With hollow bodings, round your ancient walls; // And Pity's self, at the dark stormy hour // Of Midnight, when the Moon is hid on high, // Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tow'r, // And turns her ear to each expiring cry; // Blest if her aid some fainting wretch might save, // And snatch him speechless from the whelming wave. // III. O Thou, whose stern command and precepts pure... // O THOU, whose stern command and precepts pure // (Tho' agony in every vein should start, // And slowly drain the blood-drops from the heart) // Have bade the patient spirit still endure; // Thou, who to sorrow hast a beauty lent, // On the dark brow, with resolution clad, // Illumining the dreary traces sad, // Like the cold taper on a monument; // O firm Philosophy! display the tide // Of human misery, and oft relate // How silent sinking in the storms of fate, // The brave and good have bow'd their head and died. // So taught by Thee, some solace I may find, // Remembering the sorrows of mankind. // IV. To the River Wenbeck. // AS slowly wanders thy forsaken stream, // Wenbeck! the mossy-scatter'd rocks among, // In fancy's ear still making plaintive song // To the dark woods above: ah! sure I seem // To meet some friendly Genius in the gloom, // And in each breeze a pitying voice I hear // Like sorrow's sighs upon misfortune's tomb. // Ah! soothing are your quiet scenes - the tear // Of him who passes weary on his way // Shall thank you, as he turns to bid adieu: // Onward a cheerless pilgrim he may stray, // Yet oft as musing memory shall review // The scenes that cheer'd his path with fairer ray, // Delightful haunts, he will remember you. // V. To the River Tweed. // O TWEED! a stranger, that with wand'ring feet // O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile, // (If so his weary thoughts he might beguile) // Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to greet. // The waving branches that romantick bend // O'er thy tall banks, a soothing charm bestow; // The murmurs of thy wand'ring wave below // Seem to his ear the pity of a friend. // Delightful stream! tho' now along thy shore, // When spring returns in all her wonted pride, // The shepherd's distant pipe is heard no more, // Yet here with pensive peace could I abide, // Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar, // To muse upon thy banks at eventide. // VI. Evening, as slow thy placid shades descend... // EVENING, as slow thy placid shades descend, // Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape still, // The lonely battlement, and farthest hill // And wood; I think of those that have no friend; // Who now perhaps, by melancholy led, // From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure flaunts, // Retiring, wander 'mid thy lonely haunts // 2 // Unseen; and mark the tints that o'er thy bed // Hang lovely, oft to musing fancy's eye // Presenting fairy vales, where the tir'd mind // Might rest, beyond the murmurs of mankind, // Nor hear the hourly moans of misery. // Ah! beauteous views, that hope's fair gleams the while, // Should smile like you, and perish as thy smile! // VII. At a Village in Scotland. // O NORTH! as thy romantic vales I leave, // And bid farewell to each retiring hill, // Where thoughtful fancy seems to linger still, // Tracing the broad bright landscape; much I grieve // That mingled with the toiling croud, no more // I shall return, your varied views to mark, // Of rocks winding wild, and mountains hoar, // Or castle gleaming on the distant steep. // Yet not the less I pray your charms may last, // And many a soften'd image of the past // Pensive combine; and bid remembrance keep // To cheer me with the thought of pleasure flown, // When I am wand'ring on my way alone. // VIII. To the River Itchin, near Winton. // ITCHIN, when I behold thy banks again, // Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast, // On which the self-same tints still seem to rest, // Why feels my heart the shiv'ring sense of pain? // Is it, that many a summer's day has past // Since, in life's morn, I carol'd on thy side? // Is it, that oft, since then, my heart has sigh'd, // As Youth, and Hope's delusive gleams, flew fast? // Is it that those, who circled on thy shore, // Companions of my youth, now meet now more? // Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend // Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart, // As at the meeting of some long-lost friend, // From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part. // IX. O Poverty! though from thy haggard eye... // O POVERTY! though from thy haggard eye, // Thy cheerless mein, of every charm bereft, // Thy brow, that hope's last traces long have left, // Vain Fortune's feeble sons with terror fly; // Thy rugged paths with pleasure I attend; - // For Fancy, that with fairest dreams can bless; // And Patience, in the Pall of Wretchedness, // Sad-smiling, as the ruthless storms descend; // And Piety, forgiving every wrong, // And meek Content, whose griefs no more rebel; // And Genius, warbling sweet her saddest song; // 3 // And Pity, list'ning to the poor man's knell, // Long banish'd from the world's insulting throng; // With Thee, and loveliest Melancholy, dwell. // X. On Dover Cliffs. // ON these white cliffs, that calm above the flood // Rear their o'er-shadowing heads, and at their feet // Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat, // Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood; // And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear, // And o'er the distant billows the still Eve // Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must leave // To-morrow - of the friends he lov'd most dear, - // Of social scenes, from which he wept to part: - // But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all // The thoughts, that would full fain the past recall, // Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, // And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide, // The World his country, and his God his guide. // XI. Written at Ostend. // HOW sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal! // As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze // Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease, // So piercing to my heart their force I feel! // And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall, // And now, along the white and level tide, // They fling their melancholy music wide, // Bidding me many a tender thought recall // Of summer-days, and those delightful years, // When by my native streams, in life's fair prime, // The mournful magic of their mingling chime // First wak'd my wond'ring childhood into tears! // But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, // The sounds of joy, once heard, and heard no more. // Written at a Convent. // IF chance some pensive stranger, hither led, // His bosom glowing from majestic views, // The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscape's hues, // Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed - // 'Tis poor Matilda! To the cloister'd scene, // A mourner, beauteous and unknown, she came, // To shed her tears unseen; and quench the flame // Of fruitless love: yet was her look serene // As the pale midnight on the moon-light isle - // Her voice was soft, which e'en a charm could lend, // Like that which spoke of a departed friend, // And a meek sadness sat upon her smile! // Now here remov'd from ev'ry human ill, // Her woes are buried, and her heart is still. // 4 // XIII. O Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay... // O TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay // Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence, // (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) // Stealest the long-forgotten pang 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 many a sorrow past, // And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile - // As some poor bird, at day's departing hour, // Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower // Forgetful, tho' its wings are wet the while: - // Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure, // Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure! // XIV. On a Distant View of England. // AH! from my eyes the tears unbidden start, // Albion! as now thy cliffs (that bright appear // Far o'er the wave, and their proud summits rear // To meet the beams of morn) my beating heart, // With eager hope, and filial transport hails! // Scenes of my youth, reviving gales ye bring. // As when, ere while, the tuneful morn of spring // Joyous awoke amid your blooming vales, // And fill'd with fragrance every breathing plain; - // Fled are those hours, and all the joys they gave, // Yet still I sigh, and count each rising wave, // That bears me nearer to your shores again; // If haply, 'mid the woods and vales so fair, // Stranger to Peace! I yet may meet her there...