OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Admonition

XXIX.
ADMONITION,
Intended more particularly for the Perusal of these who may have happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, in the Country of the Lakes.
Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye! —The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook, Its own small pasture, almost its own sky! But covet not the Abode—Oh! do not sigh, As many do, repining while they look; Sighing a wish to tear from Nature's Book This blissful leaf with harsh impiety. Think what the home would be if it were thine, Even thine, though few thy wants!—Roof, window, door, The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, The roses to the Porch which they entwine: Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day On which it should be touched would melt, and melt away!
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2

PEEL CASTLE.
POEMS
BY
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH:
INCLUDING
LYRICAL BALLADS,
AND THE
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES OF THE AUTHOR.
WITH ADDITIONAL POEMS,
A NEW PREFACE, AND A SUPPLEMENTARY ESSAY.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1815.
T. Davison, Lombard-street, Whitefriars, London.
       Contents of Volume II
       Notes to Volume II
       Preface to the Second Edition of Lyrical Ballads
       Appendix
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Added

XXXII.
Added, November, 1813.
Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright, Our aged Sovereign sits;—to the ebb and flow Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or woe Insensible;—he sits deprived of sight, And lamentably wrapped in twofold night, Whom no weak hopes deceived,—whose mind ensued, Through perilous war, with regal fortitude, Peace that should claim respect from lawless Might. Dread King of Kings, vouchsafe a ray divine To his forlorn condition! let thy grace Upon his inner soul in mercy shine; Permit his heart to kindle, and embrace, (Though were it only for a moment's space) The triumphs of this hour; for they are Thine!
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Alas! what boots

X.
Alas! what boots the long, laborious quest Of moral prudence, sought through good and ill, Or pains abstruse, to elevate the will, And lead us on to that transcendant rest Where every passion shall the sway attest Of Reason seated on her sovereign hill;— What is it but a vain and curious skill, If sapient Germany must lie deprest, Beneath the brutal sword?—Her haughty Schools Shall blush; and may not we with sorrow say, A few strong instincts and a few plain rules, Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought More for mankind at this unhappy day Than all the pride of intellect and thought.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Leeburn Mill

LEEBURN MILL.
Ov all the meäds wi’ shoals an’ pools, Where streams did sheäke the limber zedge, An’ milkèn vo’k did teäke their stools, In evenèn zun-light under hedge: Ov all the wears the brook did vill, Or all the hatches where a sheet ​O’ foam did leäp below woone’s veet, The pleäce vor me wer Leeburn Mill.
An’ while below the mossy wheel All day the foamèn stream did roar, An’ up in mill the floatèn meal Did pitch upon the sheäkèn vloor. We then could vind but vew han’s still, Or veet a-restèn off the ground, An’ seldom hear the merry sound O’ geämes a-plaÿ’d at Leeburn Mill.
But when they let the stream goo free, Bezide the drippèn wheel at rest, An’ leaves upon the poplar-tree Wer dark avore the glowèn west; An’ when the clock, a-ringèn sh’ill, Did slowly beät zome evenèn hour, Oh! then ’ithin the leafy bow’r Our tongues did run at Leeburn Mill.
An’ when November’s win’ did blow, Wi’ hufflèn storms along the plaïn, An’ blacken’d leaves did lie below The neäked tree, a-zoak’d wi’ raïn, I werden at a loss to vill The darkest hour o’ raïny skies, If I did vind avore my eyes The feäces down at Leeburn Mill.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Linda Deäne

LINDA DEÄNE.
The bright-tunn’d house, a-risèn proud, Stood high avore a zummer cloud, An’ windy sheädes o’ tow’rs did vall Upon the many-window’d wall; ​An’ on the grassy terrace, bright Wi’ white-bloom’d zummer’s deäisy beds, An’ snow-white lilies noddèn heads, Sweet Linda Deäne did walk in white; But ah! avore too high a door, Wer Linda Deäne ov Ellendon.
When sparklèn brooks an’ grassy ground, By keen-aïr’d Winter’s vrost wer bound, An’ star-bright snow did streak the forms O’ beäre-lim’d trees in darksome storms, Sweet Linda Deäne did lightly glide, Wi’ snow-white robe an’ rwosy feäce, Upon the smooth-vloor’d hall, to treäce The merry dance o’ Chris’mas tide; But oh! not mine be balls so fine As Linda Deäne’s at Ellendon.
Sweet Linda Deäne do match the skies Wi’ sheenèn blue o’ glisnèn eyes, An’ feaïrest blossoms do but show Her forehead’s white, an’ feäce’s glow; But there’s a winsome jaÿ above, The brightest hues ov e’th an’ skies. The dearest zight o’ many eyes, Would be the smile o’ Linda’s love; But high above my lowly love Is Linda Deäne ov Ellendon.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Keepèn up o' Chris'mas

KEEPEN UP O’ CHRIS’MAS.
An’ zoo you didden come athirt, To have zome fun last night: how wer’t? Vor we’d a-work’d wi’ all our might To scour the iron things up bright, An’ brush’d an’ scrubb’d the house all drough; An’ brought in vor a brand, a plock O’ wood so big’s an uppèn-stock, An’ hung a bough o’ misseltoo, An’ ax’d a merry friend or two.  To keepèn up o’ Chris’mas.
An’ there wer wold an’ young; an’ Bill, Soon after dark, stalk’d up vrom mill. An’ when he wer a-comèn near, He whissled loud vor me to hear; Then roun’ my head my frock I roll’d, An’ stood in orcha’d like a post, To meäke en think I wer a ghost. But he wer up to’t, an’ did scwold To vind me stannèn in the cwold,  A keepèn up o’ Chris’mas.
We plaÿ’d at forfeits, an’ we spun The trencher roun’, an’ meäde such fun! An’ had a geäme o’ dree-ceärd loo, An’ then begun to hunt the shoe. An’ all the wold vo’k zittèn near, A-chattèn roun’ the vier pleäce, Did smile in woone another’s feäce, ​An’ sheäke right hands wi’ hearty cheer, An’ let their left hands spill their beer,  A keepèn up o’ Chris’mas.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Kindness

KINDNESS.
Good Meäster Collins heärd woone day A man a-talkèn, that did zay It woulden answer to be kind, He thought, to vo’k o’ grov’lèn mind, Vor they would only teäke it wrong, That you be weak an’ they be strong. “No,” cried the goodman, “never mind, Let vo’k be thankless,—you be kind; Don’t do your good for e’thly ends At man’s own call vor man’s amends. Though souls befriended should remain As thankless as the sea vor raïn. On them the good’s a-lost ’tis true, But never can be lost to you. Look on the cool-feäced moon at night Wi’ light-vull ring, at utmost height, A-castèn down, in gleamèn strokes, His beams upon the dim-bough’d woaks, To show the cliff a-risèn steep, To show the stream a-vallèn deep, To show where windèn roads do leäd, An’ prickly thorns do ward the meäd. While sheädes o’ boughs do flutter dark Upon the woak-trees’ moon-bright bark, There in the lewth, below the hill, The nightèngeäle, wi’ ringèn bill, ​Do zing among the soft-aïr’d groves, While up below the house’s oves The maïd, a-lookèn vrom her room Drough window, in her youthvul bloom, Do listen, wi’ white ears among Her glossy heäirlocks, to the zong. If, then, the while the moon do light The lwonesome zinger o’ the night, His cwold-beam’d light do seem to show The prowlèn owls the mouse below. What then? Because an evil will, Ov his sweet good, mid meäke zome ill, Shall all his feäce be kept behind The dark-brow’d hills to leave us blind?”
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Leaves a-vallèn

LEAVES A-VALLÈN.
There the ash-tree leaves do vall  In the wind a-blowèn cwolder, An’ my childern, tall or small,  Since last Fall be woone year wolder. Woone year wolder, woone year dearer,  Till when they do leave my he’th, I shall be noo mwore a hearer  O’ their vaïces or their me’th.
There dead ash leaves be a-toss’d  In the wind, a-blowèn stronger, An’ our life-time, since we lost  Souls we lov’d, is woone year longer. Woone year longer, woone year wider,  Vrom the friends that death ha’ took, As the hours do teäke the rider  Vrom the hand that last he shook.
​No. If he do ride at night  Vrom the zide the zun went under, Woone hour vrom his western light  Needen meäke woone hour asunder; Woone hour onward, woone hour nigher  To the hopeful eastern skies, Where his mornèn rim o’ vier  Soon ageän shall meet his eyes.
Leaves be now a-scatter’d round  In the wind, a-blowèn bleaker, An’ if we do walk the ground  Wi’ our life-strangth woone year weaker. Woone year weaker, woone year nigher  To the pleäce where we shall vind Woone that’s deathless vor the dier,  Voremost they that dropp’d behind.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Light or Sheäde

LIGHT OR SHEÄDE.
A Maÿtide’s evenèn wer a-dyèn, Under moonsheen, into night, Wi’ a streamèn wind a-sighèn By the thorns a-bloomèn white. Where in sheäde, a-zinkèn deeply, Wer a nook, all dark but lew, By a bank, arisèn steeply, Not to let the win’ come drough.
Should my love goo out, a-showèn All her smiles, in open light; Or, in lewth, wi’ wind a-blowèn, Staÿ in darkness, dim to zight? Staÿ in sheäde o’ bank or wallèn. In the warmth, if not in light; Words alwone vrom her a-vallèn, Would be jaÿ vor all the night.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Knowlwood

KNOWLWOOD.
I don’t want to sleep abrode, John, I do like my hwomeward road, John; An’ like the sound o’ Knowlwood bells the best. Zome would rove vrom pleäce to pleäce, John, Zome would goo from feäce to feäce, John, But I be happy in my hwomely nest; An’ slight’s the hope vor any pleäce bezide, To leäve the plain abode where love do bide.
Where the shelvèn knap do vall, John, Under trees a-springèn tall, John; ’Tis there my house do show his sheenèn zide, Wi’ his walls vor ever green, John, Under ivy that’s a screen, John, Vrom wet an’ het, an’ ev’ry changèn tide, An’ I do little ho vor goold or pride, To leäve the plaïn abode where love do bide.
There the bendèn stream do flow, John, By the mossy bridge’s bow, John; An’ there the road do wind below the hill; There the miller, white wi’ meal, John, Deafen’d wi’ his foamy wheel, John, Do stan’ o’ times a-lookèn out o’ mill: The while ’ithin his lightly-sheäken door, His wheatèn flour do whitèn all his floor.
​When my daily work’s a-done, John, At the zettèn o’ the zun, John, An’ I all day ’ve a-plaÿ’d a good man’s peärt, I do vind my ease a-blest, John, While my conscience is at rest, John; An’ while noo worm’s a-left to fret my heart; An’ who vor finer hwomes o’ restless pride, Would pass the plaïn abode where peace do bide?
By a windor in the west, John, There upon my fiddle’s breast, John, The strings do sound below my bow’s white heäir; While a zingèn drush do swaÿ, John, Up an’ down upon a spraÿ, John, An’ cast his sheäde upon the window square; Vor birds do know their friends, an’ build their nest, An’ love to roost, where they can live at rest.
Out o’ town the win’ do bring, John, Peals o’ bells when they do ring, John, An’ roun’ me here, at hand, my ear can catch The maïd a-zingèn by the stream, John, Or carter whislèn wi’ his team, John, Or zingèn birds, or water at the hatch; An’ zoo wi’ sounds o’ vaïce, an’ bird an’ bell, Noo hour is dull ’ithin our rwosy dell.
An’ when the darksome night do hide, John, Land an’ wood on ev’ry zide, John; An’ when the light’s a-burnèn on my bwoard, Then vor pleasures out o’ door, John, I’ve enough upon my vloor, John: My Jenny’s lovèn deed, an’ look, an’ word, An’ we be lwoth, lik’ culvers zide by zide, To leave the plaïn abode where love do bide.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Lindenore

LINDENORE.
At Lindenore upon the steep,  Bezide the trees a-reachèn high, The while their lower limbs do zweep  The river-stream a-flowèn by; By grægle bells in beds o’ blue, Below the tree-stems in the lew, Calm aïr do vind the rwose-bound door, Ov Ellen Dare o’ Lindenore.
An’ there noo foam do hiss avore  Swift bwoats, wi’ water-plowèn keels, An’ there noo broad high-road’s a-wore  By vur-brought trav’lers’ cracklèn wheels; ​Noo crowd’s a-passèn to and fro, Upon the bridge’s high-sprung bow: An’ vew but I do seek the door Ov Ellen Dare o’ Lindenore.
Vor there the town, wi’ zun-bright walls,  Do sheen vur off, by hills o’ grey, An’ town-vo’k ha’ but seldom calls  O’ business there, from day to day: But Ellen didden leäve her ruf To be admir’d, an’ that’s enough— Vor I’ve a-vound ’ithin her door, Feäir Ellen Dare o’ Lindenore.
# Poems of Nature (Whittier)

POEMS OF NATURE
BY
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
Illustrated from Nature
BY
ELBRIDGE KINGSLEY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY The Riverside Press, Cambridge 1886
Copyright, 1850, 1856, 1860, 1863, 1867, 1872, 1874, 1878, 1883, and 1884, By JOHN G. WHITTIER.
Copyright, 1885, By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
All rights reserved.
The Riverside Press, Cambridge: Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton and Company.
CONTENTS.
​Page:Poems of nature (IA poemsofnature00whit).pdf/17 ​Page:Poems of nature (IA poemsofnature00whit).pdf/18 ​Page:Poems of nature (IA poemsofnature00whit).pdf/19 ​Page:Poems of nature (IA poemsofnature00whit).pdf/20
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems of Nature (Whittier)/Monadnock from Wachuset

II.
MONADNOCK FROM WACHUSET.
# Poems of Nature (Thoreau)/Winter Memories

WINTER MEMORIES
Within the circuit of this plodding life There enter moments of an azure hue, Untarnished fair as is the violet Or anemone, when the spring strews them By some meandering rivulet, which make The best philosophy untrue that aims But to console man for his grievances. I have remembered when the winter came, High in my chamber in the frosty nights, When in the still light of the cheerful moon, On every twig and rail and jutting spout, The icy spears were adding to their length Against the arrows of the coming sun,— How in the shimmering noon of summer past ​Some unrecorded beam slanted across The upland pastures where the johnswort grew; Or heard, amid the verdure of my mind, The bee's long smothered hum, on the blue flag Loitering amidst the mead; or busy rill, Which now through all its course stands still and dumb, Its own memorial,—purling at its play Along the slopes, and through the meadows next, Until its youthful sound was hushed at last In the staid current of the lowland stream; Or seen the furrows shine but late upturned, And where the fieldfare followed in the rear, When all the fields around lay bound and hoar Beneath a thick integument of snow:— So by God's cheap economy made rich, To go upon my winter's task again.
# Poems of Nature (Whittier)/A Sea Dream

A SEA DREAM.
# Poems of Nature (Thoreau)/True Kindness

TRUE KINDNESS
True kindness is a pure divine affinity, Not founded upon human consanguinity. It is a spirit, not a blood relation, Superior to family and station.
# Poems of Nature (Whittier)/A Mystery

A MYSTERY.
# Poems of Nature (Whittier)/Franconia from the Pemigewasset

MOUNTAIN PICTURES.
I.
FRANCONIA FROM THE PEMIGEWASSET.
# Poems of Nature (Whittier)/A Memory

A MEMORY.
# Poems of Nature (Whittier)/A Summer Pilgrimage

POEMS OF NATURE.
A SUMMER PILGRIMAGE.
# Poems of Nature (Whittier)/June on the Merrimac

JUNE ON THE MERRIMAC.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/58

CELIA.
IMpatient with Desire, at last I ventur'd to lay Forms aside: 'Twas I was modest, not she chaste; Celia, so gently press'd, comply'd.
With idle Awe, an amorous Fool, I gaz'd upon her Eyes with Fear; Say, Love, how came your Slave so dull To read no better there?
Thus to our selves the greatest Foes, Altho' the Nymph be well enclin'd, For want of Courage to propose, By our own Folly she's unkind.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/6

Mr. Waller to the Author, on his foregoing Verses to the King.
AN early Plant, which such a Blossom bears, And shows a Genius so beyond his Years, A Judgment that cou’d make so fair a Choice, So high a Subject to employ his Voice; Still as it grows, how sweetly will he sing The growing Greatness of our matchless King!
# Poems upon Several Occasions/59

FLAVIA.
OF two Reliefs to ease a Love-sick Mind, Flavia prescribes Despair: I urge, Be kind, Flavia be kind: The Remedy's as sure, 'Tis the most pleasant, and the quickest Cure.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/52

BELINDA.
BElinda's Pride's an arrant Cheat, A foolish Artifice to blind; Some honest Glance, that scorns Deceit, Does still reveal her native Mind.
With Look demure, and forc'd Disdain, She idly acts the Saint; We see thro' this Disguise, as plain As we distinguish Paint.
The Pains she takes are vainly meant To hide her amorous Heart,
'Tis like perfuming an ill Scent, The Smell's too strong for Art.
So have I seen grave Fools design With formal Looks to pass for wise: But Nature is a Light will shine, And break thro' all Disguise.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/54

THE SAME.
CLarinda, with a haughty Grace, In scornful Postures sets her Face, And looks as she were born alone To give us Love, and take from none
Tho' I adore to that degree, Clarinda, I wou'd die for thee, If you're too proud to ease my Pain, I am too proud for your Disdain.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/56

MACRO.
THAT Macro's Looks are good, let no Man doubt, Which I, his Friend and Servant, thus make out. On his dark Forehead a false Friend is writ, Let none condemn the Light that shows a Pit. Cocles, whose Face finds a Credit for his Heart, Who can escape so smooth a Villain's Art? Adorn'd with ev'ry Grace that can perswade, Seeing, we trust; and trusting, are betray'd! His Looks are Snares: But Macro's cry Beware, Believe not, tho' ten thousand Oaths he swear. If thou'rt deceiv'd, observing well this Rule, Not Macro is the Knave, but thou the Fool. In this one Point he and his Looks agree, As they betray their Master, so did he.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/57

Phyllis Drinking.
WHile Phyllis is drinking, Love and Wine in Alliance. With Forces united bid resistless Defiance; By the Touch of her Lips the Wine sparkles higher, And her Eyes by her drinking redouble their Fire.
Her Cheeks glow the brighter, recruiting their Colour, As Flowers by sprinkling revive with fresh Odour; His Dart dipt in Wine, Love wounds beyond curing, And the Liquor, like Oyl, makes the Flame more enduring.
By Cordials of Wine, Love is kept from expiring, And our Mirth is enliven'd by Love and Desiring, Relieving each other, the Pleasure is lasting, And we never are cloy'd, yet are ever a tasting.
Then Phyllis begin, let our Raptures abound, And a Kiss and a Glass be still going round; Our Joys are immortal while thus we remove From Love to the Bottle, from the Bottle to Love.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/60

LOVE.
LOVE is begot by Fancy, bred By Ignorance, by Expectation fed; Destroy'd by Knowledge, and at best Lost in the Moment 'tis possest.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/53

CLARINDA.
IN vain a thousand Slaves have try'd To overcome Clarinda's Pride: Pity pleading, Love perswading, When her icy Heart is thaw'd, Honour chides, and strait she's aw'd. Foolish Creature, Follow Nature, Waste not thus your Prime; Youth's a Treasure, Love's a Pleasure, Both destroy'd by Time.
# Poems upon Several Occasions/55

CLEORA.
CLeöra has her Wish, she weds a Peer, Her weighty Train two Pages scarce can bear, Persia and both the Indies must provide To grace her Pomp, and gratifie her Pride; Of rich Brocard a shining Robe she wears, And Gems surround her lovely Neck, like Stars. Drawn by six Greys of the proud Belgian kind, With a long Train of Livery Beaus behind, She charms the Park, and sets all Hearts on Fire, The Ladies Envy, and the Mens Desire.
Beholding thus, O happy as a Queen! We cry: But shift the gaudy flattering Scene, View her at home in her Domestick Light, For thither she must come, at least at Night. What has she there? A surly, ill-bred Lord, That chides, and snaps her up at ev'ry Word; A brutal Sot, who, while she holds his Head, With drunken Filth bedawbs the Nuptial Bed: Sick to the Heart, she breathes the nauseous Fume Of odious Steams, that poison all the Room: Weeping all Night the trembling Creature lyes, And counts the tedious Hours when she may rise: But most she fears, lest waking she shou'd fin, To make amends, the Monster wou'd be kind: Those matchless Beauties, worthy of a God, Must bear, tho' much averse, the loathsome Load. What then may be the Chance that next ensues? Some vile Disease, fresh reeking from the Stews. The secret Venom, circling in her Veins, Works thro' her Skin, and bursts in bloating Stains, Her Cheeks their Freshness lose, and wonted Grace, And an unusual Paleness spreads her Face, Her Eyes grow dim, and her corrupted Breath Tainting her Gums, infects her Ivory Teeth, Of sharp nocturnal Anguish she complains, And guiltless of the Cause, relates her Pains. The conscious Husband, whom like Symptoms seize, Charges on her the Guilt of their Disease.
Affecting Fury, acts a Madman's Part, He'll rip the fatal Secret from her Heart! Bids her confess, calls her ten thousand Names, In vain she kneels, she weeps, protests, exclaims; Scarce with her Life she scapes, expos'd to Shame,$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ In Body tortur'd, murder'd in her Fame, Rots with a vile Adulteress's Name, Abandon'd by her Friends, without Defence, And happy only in her Innocence.
Such is the Vengeance the just Gods provide For those, who barter Liberty for Pride, Who impiously invoke the Pow'rs above To witness to false Vows of mutual Love. Thousands of poor Cleoras may be found, Such Husbands and such wretched Wives abound.
Ye Guardian Pow'rs, the Arbiters of Bliss, Preserve Clarinda from a Fate like this: You form'd her fair, not any Grace deny'd, But gave, alas! a Spark too much of Pride; Reform that Failing, and protect her still, O save her from the Curse of chusing ill. Deem it not Envy, or a jealous Care, That moves these Wishes, or provokes this Pray'r, Tho' more than Death I dread to see those Charms Allotted to some happier Mortal's Arms;
Tormenting Thought! Yet cou'd I bear that Pain, Or any Ill, but hearing her complain; Intent on her, my Love forgets his own, Nor frames one Wish, but for her sake alone. Whome'er the Gods have destin'd to prefer, They cannot make wretched, blessing her.
# Poetical Works of John Oldham/The Parting

THE PARTING.
TOO happy had I been indeed, if fate Had made it lasting, as she made it great; But 'twas the plot of unkind destiny, To lift me to, then snatch me from my joy: She raised my hopes, and brought them just in view, And then, in spite, the charming scene withdrew. So he of old the promised land surveyed, Which he might only see, but never tread: So heaven was by that damned caitiff seen, He saw't, but with a mighty gulf between, He saw't, to be more wretched and despair again. Not souls of dying sinners, when they go, Assured of endless miseries below, Their bodies more unwillingly desert, Than I from you, and all my joys did part. As some young merchant, whom his sire unkind Resigns to every faithless wave and wind, If the kind mistress of his vows appear, And come to bless his voyage with a prayer, Such sighs he vents as may the gale increase, Such floods of tears as may the billows raise; And when at length the launching vessel flies, And severs first his lips, and then his eyes, Long he looks back to see what he adores, And, while he may, views the belovèd shores. Such just concern I at your parting had, With such sad eyes your turning face surveyed: Reviewing, they pursued you out of sight, Then sought to trace you by left tracks of light; And when they could not looks to you convey, Towards the loved place they took delight to stray, And aimed uncertain glances still that way.