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# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 1/Reverie of Poor Susan

XIV.
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.
At the corner of Wood-street, when day-light appears, There's a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.
'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only Dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her Heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all passed away from her eyes.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 1/Song for the Wandering Jew

XV.
SONG
FOR THE
WANDERING JEW.
Though the torrents from their fountains Roar down many a craggy steep, Yet they find among the mountains Resting-places calm and deep.
Though, as if with eagle pinion O'er the rocks the Chamois roam, Yet he has some small dominion Where he feels himself at home.
If on windy days the Raven Gambol like a dancing skiff, Not the less he loves his haven In the bosom of the cliff.
​Though the Sea-horse in the ocean Own no dear domestic cave; Yet he slumbers without motion On the calm and silent wave.
Day and night my toils redouble! Never nearer to the goal; Never—never does the trouble Of the Wanderer leave my soul.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 1/Rural Architecture

XI.
RURAL ARCHITECTURE.
There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore, Three rosy-cheeked School-boys, the highest not more Than the height of a Counsellor's bag; To the top of Great How did it please them to climb; And there they built up, without mortar or lime, A Man on the peak of the crag.
They built him of stones gathered up as they lay; They built him and christened him all in one day, An Urchin both vigorous and hale; And so without scruple they called him Ralph Jones. Now Ralph is renowned for the length of his bones; The Magog of Legberthwaite dale.
​Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth, And, in anger or merriment, out of the North Coming on with a terrible pother, From the peak of the crag blew the Giant away. And what did these School-boys?—The very next day They went and they built up another.
Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirl-mere, on the western side of the beautiful dale of Legberthwaite, along the high road between Keswick and Ambleside.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 1/She dwelt among the untrodden ways

VIII.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love.
A Violet by a mossy stone Half-hidden from the eye! —Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her Grave, and, oh, The difference to me!
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Surprized by joy

XXXII.
Surprized by joy—impatient as the Wind I wished to share the transport—Oh! with whom But Thee, long buried in the silent Tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find? Love, faithful love recalled thee to my mind— But how could I forget thee?—Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss?—That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/The Force of Prayer

XXIII.
THE FORCE OF PRAYER;
OR,
THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY.
A TRADITION.
"What is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my Tale; And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring When Prayer is of no avail?
"What is good for a bootless bene?" The Falconer to the Lady said; And she made answer "ENDLESS SORROW!" For she knew that her Son was dead.
She knew it by the Falconer's words, And from the look of the Falconer's eye; And from the love which was in her soul For her youthful Romilly.
​—Young Romilly through Barden Woods Is ranging high and low; And holds a Greyhound in a leash, To let slip upon buck or doe.
And the Pair have reached that fearful chasm, How tempting to bestride! For lordly Wharf is there pent in With rocks on either side.
This Striding-place is called The Strid, A name which it took of yore: A thousand years hath it borne that name, And shall, a thousand more.
And hither is young Romilly come, And what may now forbid That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, Shall bound across The Strid?
He sprang in glee,—for what cared he That the River was strong and the rocks were steep? —But the Greyhound in the leash hung back, And checked him in his leap.
​The Boy is in the arms of Wharf, And strangled by a merciless force; For never more was young Romilly seen Till he rose a lifeless Corse!
Now there is stillness in the Vale, And long unspeaking sorrow:— Wharf shall be to pitying hearts A name more sad than Yarrow.
If for a Lover the Lady wept, A solace she might borrow From death, and from the passion of death;— Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.
She weeps not for the wedding-day Which was to be to-morrow: Her hope was a farther-looking hope, And hers is a Mother's sorrow.
He was a Tree that stood alone, And proudly did its branches wave; And the Root of this delightful Tree Was in her Husband's grave!
​Long, long in darkness did she sit, And her first words were, "Let there be In Bolton, on the Field of Wharf, A stately Priory!"
The stately Priory was reared; And Wharf, as he moved along, To Matins joined a mournful voice, Nor failed at Even-song.
And the Lady prayed in heaviness That looked not for relief; But slowly did her succour come, And a patience to her grief.
Oh! there is never sorrow of heart That shall lack a timely end If but to God we turn, and ask Of Him to be our Friend!
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/The French and Spanish Guerillas

XXVIII.
THE FRENCH,
AND
THE SPANISH GUERILLAS.
Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast From bleak hill-top, and length of march by night Through heavy swamp, or over snow-clad height, These hardships ill sustained, these dangers past, The roving Spanish Bands are reached at last, Charged, and dispersed like foam:—but as a flight Of scattered quails by signs do reunite So these,—and, heard of once again, are chased With combinations of long practised art And newly-kindled hope;—but they are fled, Gone are they, viewless as the buried dead; Where now?—Their sword is at the Foeman's heart! And thus from year to year his walk they thwart, And hang like dreams around his guilty bed.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/The Fountain

XVII.
THE FOUNTAIN,
A CONVERSATION.
We talked with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true; A pair of Friends, though I was young, And Matthew seventy-two.
We lay beneath a spreading oak, Beside a mossy seat; And from the turf a fountain broke, And gurgled at our feet.
"Now, Matthew! let us try to match This water's pleasant tune With some old Border-song, or Catch That suits a summer's noon.
​"Or of the Church-clock and the chimes Sing here beneath the shade, That half-mad thing of witty rhymes Which you last April made!"
In silence Matthew lay, and eyed The spring beneath the tree; And thus the dear old man replied, The gray-haired man of glee:
"Down to the vale this water steers, How merrily it goes! 'Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows.
"And here, on this delightful day, I cannot choose but think How oft, a vigorous man, I lay Beside this Fountain's brink.
"My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.
​"Thus fares it still in our decay: And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what age takes away Than what it leaves behind.
"The Blackbird in the summer trees, The Lark upon the hill, Let loose their carols when they please, Are quiet when they will.
"With Nature never do they wage A foolish strife; they see A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free:
"But we are pressed by heavy laws; And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy, because We have been glad of yore.
"If there is one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The household hearts that were his own, It is the man of mirth.
​"My days, my Friend, are almost gone, My life has been approved, And many love me; but by none Am I enough beloved."
"Now both himself and me he wrongs, The man who thus complains! I live and sing my idle songs Upon these happy plains,
"And, Matthew, for thy Children dead I'll be a son to thee!" At this he grasped my hand, and said "Alas! that cannot be."
We rose up from the fountain-side; And down the smooth descent Of the green sheep-track did we glide; And through the wood we went;
And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock, He sang those witty rhymes About the crazy old church clock, And the bewildered chimes.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/The Oak of Guernica

XXIV.
THE OAK OF GUERNICA.
The ancient Oak of Guernica, says Laborde in his account of Biscay, is a most venerable natural Monument. Ferdinand and Isabella, in the year 1476, after hearing mass in the Church of Santa Maria de la Antigua, repaired to this tree, under which they swore to the Biscayans to maintain their fueros (privileges). What other interest belongs to it in the minds of this People will appear from the following
SUPPOSED ADDRESS OF THE SAME.
1810.
Oak of Guernica! Tree of holier power Than that which in Dodona did enshrine (So faith too fondly deemed) a voice divine Heard from the depths of its aerial bower, How canst thou flourish at this blighting hour? What hope, what joy can sunshine bring to thee, Or the soft breezes from the Atlantic sea, The dews of morn, or April's tender shower? ——Stroke merciful and welcome would that be Which would extend thy branches on the ground, If never more within their shady round Those lofty-minded Lawgivers shall meet, Peasant and Lord, in their appointed seat, Guardians of Biscay's ancient liberty.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/The Shepherd looking eastward

VI.
The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said, "Bright is thy veil, O Moon, as thou art bright!" Forthwith, that little Cloud, in ether spread, And penetrated all with tender light, She cast away, and shewed her fulgent head Uncover'd;—dazzling the Beholder's sight As if to vindicate her beauty's right, Her beauty thoughtlessly disparaged. Meanwhile that Veil, removed or thrown aside, Went, floating from her, darkening as it went; And a huge Mass, to bury or to hide, Approached this glory of the firmament; Who meekly yields, and is obscur'd;—content With one calm triumph of a modest pride.
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Amulet, 1832

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
This work is available under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
The person who associated a work with this deed has dedicated the work to the public domain by waiving all of their rights to the work worldwide under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights, to the extent allowed by law. You can copy, modify, distribute and perform the work, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Amulet, 1832
Compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* The Death Song of Alcestis
* Song of a Guardian Spirit
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Amulet, 1832/Song of a Guardian Spirit

Pages 44-45
SONG OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
"They sin who tell us love can die.
With life all other passions fly
All others are but vanity!
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell;
Earthly these passions, as of earth—
They perish where they have their birth!
But love is indestructible:—
Its holy flame for ever burneth,
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth!
SOUTHEY.
Oh! droop thou not, my gentle earthly love—
Mine still to be!
I bore, through death, to brighter lands above,
My thoughts of thee.
Yes! the deep memory of our holy tears—
Our mingled prayer—
Our suffering love, through long devoted years,—
Went with me there!
It was not vain, the hallowed and the tried—
It was not vain!
Still, still, though viewless, hovering at thy side,
I watch again!
From our own paths, our love's attesting bowers,
I am not gone;
In the deep hush of midnight's whispering hours,
Thou art not lone!
Not lone, when by the haunted stream thou weepest—
That stream whose tone
Murmurs of thoughts, the holiest and the deepest,
We two have known:
Not lone, when mournfully some strain awaking
Of days long past,
From thy soft eyes the sudden tears are breaking,
Silent and fast:
Not lone, when upwards, in fond visions, turning
Thy dreamy glance,
Thou seek'st my home, where solemn stars are burning
O'er night's expanse!
My home is near thee, loved one! and around thee,
Where'er thou art;
Though still the o’ershadowing veil of earth hath bound thee,
Oh, trust thy heart!
Hear its low voice, nor deem thyself forsaken!
Let faith be given
To the still tones that oft our being waken—
They are from heaven!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Christian Examiner and Theological Review Vol IV 1827/To the Memory of a Friend and Relative

TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND AND RELATIVE.
BY MRS HEMANS.
[From the Manuscript.]
'Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.'
We miss thy voice while early flowers are blowing,
 And the first flush of blossom clothes each bough,
And the spring sunshine round our home is glowing,
 Soft as thy smile—thou shouldst be with us now!
With us!—we wrong thee by the earthly thought—  Could our fond gaze but follow where thou art,
Well might the glories of this world seem nought
 To the one promise given the pure in heart.
Yet wert thou blest e'en here—oh! ever blest
 In thine own sunny thoughts and tranquil faith;— The silent joy that still o'erflowed thy breast,
 Needed but guarding from all change, by death.
So is it sealed to peace!—on thy clear brow
 Never was care one fleeting shade to cast,
And thy calm days in brightness were to flow,
 A holy stream, untroubled to the last!
Farewell! thy life hath left surviving love
 A wealth of records and sweet 'feelings given,’ From sorrow's heart the faintness to remove,
 By whispers breathing 'less of earth than heaven.'*
Thus rests thy spirit still on those with whom
 Thy step the paths of joyous duty trod,
Bidding them make an altar of thy tomb,
 Where chastened thought may offer praise to God!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Christian Examiner and Theological Review Vol IV 1827/Washington's Statue

WASHINGTON'S STATUE.
SENT FROM ENGLAND TO AMERICA.
Yes! rear thy guardian Hero's form,
On thy proud soil, thou Western World!
A watcher through each sign of storm,
 O'er Freedom's flag unfurled.
There, as before a shrine to bow,
Bid thy true sons their children lead;
—The language of that noble brow
 For all things good shall plead.
The spirit reared in patriot fight,
The virtue born of home and hearth,
There calmly throned, a holy light
 Shall pour o'er chainless earth.
And let that work of England's hand,
Sent through the blast and surges' roar,
So girt with tranquil glory, stand
 For ages on thy shore!
Such through all time the greetings be,
That with the Atlantic billows sweep!
Telling the mighty and the free
 Of brothers o'er the deep!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Casket, 1829/From the Italian

FROM THE ITALIAN.
Where shall I find, on all the fleeting earth,
This world of changes and farewells, a friend,
That will not fail me in his love and worth,
Tender and true, and stedfast to the end?
Far hath my spirit sought a place of rest,
Long on vain idols its devotion shed;
Some have forsaken whom I lov'd the best,
And some deceiv'd, and some are with the dead.
But Thou, my Saviour, Thou my hope and trust,
Faithful art Thou, when friends and joys depart;
Teach me to lift these yearnings from the dust,
And fix on Thee, th' unchanging one, my heart!
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Casket, 1829

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
This work is available under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
The person who associated a work with this deed has dedicated the work to the public domain by waiving all of their rights to the work worldwide under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights, to the extent allowed by law. You can copy, modify, distribute and perform the work, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Casket, 1829
Compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* From the Italian
* To an Orphan
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Casket, 1829/To an Orphan

TO AN ORPHAN.
Thou hast been rear'd too tenderly,
 Belov'd too well and long,
Watch'd by too many a gentle eye:
 Now look on life—be strong!
Too quiet seem'd thy joys for change,
 Too holy and too deep;
Bright clouds, thro' summer skies that range,
 Seem oft times thus to sleep;
To sleep, in silvery stillness bound,
 As things that ne'er may melt:
Yet gaze again—no trace is found
 To show thee where they dwelt.
This world hath no more love to give
 Like that which thou hast known;
Yet the heart breaks not—we survive
 Our treasures—and bear on.
But oh! too beautiful and blest
 Thy home of youth hath been;
Where shall thy wing, poor bird! find rest,
 Shut out from that sweet scene?
Kind voices from departed years
 Must haunt thee many a day;
Looks, that will smite the source of tears,
 Across thy soul must play.
Friends—now the alter'd or the dead—
 And music that is gone,
A gladness o'er thy dreams will shed,
 And thou shalt wake alone.
Alone!—it is in that deep word
 That all thy sorrow lies;
How is the heart to courage stirr'd
 By smiles from kindred eyes!
And are these lost? and have I said
 To aught like thee—be strong?
So bid the willow lift its head,
 And brave the tempest's wrong!
Thou reed! o'er which the storm hath pass'd,
 Thou, shaken with the wind,
On one, one friend, thy weakness cast,
 There is but One to bind.
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Christian Examiner and Theological Review Vol IV 1827

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
This work is available under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.
The person who associated a work with this deed has dedicated the work to the public domain by waiving all of their rights to the work worldwide under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights, to the extent allowed by law. You can copy, modify, distribute and perform the work, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Christian Examiner And Theological Review Vol. IV 1827
compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* Washington's Statue
* He Walked with God
* To the Memory of a Friend and Relative
TO THE EDITOR OF THE CHRISTIAN EXAMINER.
Sir,
The following are two poems lately received from Mrs Hemans. In a letter accompanying the first, she says;—'I have just composed a few lines on reading a description in one of our papers of Washington's statue by Chantry. Its being sent from England to America, now that we may hope that all feelings of animosity are yielding to kindlier and more brotherly sentiments, is a most striking and interesting circumstance. The lines have not been published, nor will they at present appear in any English work, as I should wish them to reach my New England friends first.'—As the statue may be expected to arrive here about the time when the next number of the Examiner will appear, there can be no more appropriate season for their publication. Cambridge, April 14, 1827.
# Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Christian Examiner and Theological Review Vol IV 1827/He Walked with God

HE WALKED WITH GOD.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
'And Enoch walked with God: and he was not; for God took him.'
Genesis, Chap. v. v. 24.
He walked with God in holy joy,
 While yet his days were few;
The deep glad spirit of the Boy,
 To love and reverence grew. Whether, each nightly star to count,
 The ancient hills he trod,
Or sought the flowers by stream and fount,  Alike he walked with God.
The graver noon of manhood came,
 The full of cares and fears;
One voice was in his heart—the same
 It heard through childhood's years.
Amidst fair tents, and flocks, and swains,
 O'er his green pasture sod,
A shepherd king on Eastern plains,
 The Patriarch walked with God.
And calmly, brightly, that pure life
 Melted from earth away;
No pang it knew, no parting strife,
 No sorrowful decay.
He bowed him not, like all beside,
 Unto the Spoiler's rod,
But joined at once the glorified,
 Where angels walk with God.
So let us walk—the night must come
 To us that comes to all;
We through the darkness must go home,
 Hearing the Trumpet's call.
Closed is the path for evermore
 Which without death he trod;—
Not so that way, wherein of yore,  His footsteps walked with God!
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Heath’s Book of Beauty, 1836/The Lady Egerton

* THE LADY EGERTON
* Painted by W. BoxallEngraved by W. H. Mote
Transcribed from F. J. Sypher’s 'Poems from the Annuals'
THE LADY EGERTON
I know not thy history—  I never heard thy name, Until as source of song to me  Thy pictured semblance came.
I see thy face is very fair,  A beauty high and proud, That wold disdain to seek or share  The homage of the crowd.
Upon thy neck is many a gem;  They suit thy bearing well: Upon thy head a diadem  Might be content to dwell.
Ay, beautiful Patrician thou!  Dost look thy state and style; For there is pride upon thy brow,  And pride within thy smile.
Thou art amid earth’s fav’rite ones—  Flowers of our fallen soil, Whose sheltered bloom the rude wind shuns,  Who know not want or toil.
Art thou as lovely as thy face?  Ah, yes! I feel thou art— It is the inward, dearer grace,  That warms the outward part.
The better lot in life is thine!  Ah! how much dost thou owe To those who perish and who pine  In life’s sad paths below!
What misery is around thy way—  A misery thou canst aid: Seek in the winter hut of clay  Where wretchedness is laid.
Where the pale mother turns to weep  O’er food she loathes to share; Or watches o’er her children’s sleep,  And thinks how pale they are.
Lady! thou may’st to childhood’s cheek  Bring back the early rose; The heads that bend, the hearts that break,  May owe to you repose.
The dearest blessing fortune hath  Amid such scenes, is found When smiles, like thine, shed o’er their path  A moral sunshine round.