Bibliographic Record

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



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