O my beloved nymph! fair Dove! And, with my angle, upon them I ever learned industriously to try. Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show, The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine Are puddle-water all, compared with thine; And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine Beloved Dove, with thee To vie priority; Nay, Thame and Isis when conjoined submit, O my beloved rocks! that rise To awe the earth and brave the skies; Giddy with pleasure, to look down, And from the vales to view the noble heights above! O my beloved caves! from Dog-star's heat And all anxieties my safe retreat, What safety, privacy, what true delight, Your gloomy entrails make, Have I taken, do I take! How oft, when grief has made me fly, To hide me from society Even of my dearest friends, have I In your recesses' friendly shade All my sorrows open laid, And my most secret woes intrusted to your privacy! Lord! would men let me alone, What an over-happy one Should think myself to be, Might I, in this desert place, Which most men in discourse disgrace, Would I, maugre winter's cold And the summer's worst excess, Try to live out to sixty full years old! And all the while, Without an envious eye On any thriving under Fortune's smile, Contented live, and then contented die. Charles Cotton. THERE Dover. THE CLIFFS. HERE is a cliff whose high and bending head Come on, sir; here's the place; stand still. How fearful And dizzy 't is, to cast one's eyes so low! The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air, * * * * * From the dread summit of this chalky bourn Look up a-height; the shrill-gorged lark so far William Shakespeare. ROCKS THE CLIFFS OF DOVER. of my country! let the cloud Your crested heights array, And rise ye like a fortress proud My spirit greets you as ye stand I have left rich blue skies behind, The breathings of the myrtle flowers The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain, The purple heavens of Rome, Yes, all are glorious; yet again I bless thee, land of home! For thine the sabbath peace, my land! And thine the guarded hearth; And thine the dead, the noble band That make thee holy earth. Their voices meet me in thy breeze, Their blood hath mingled with the tide Of thine exulting sea; O, be it still a joy, a pride, To live and die for thee! Felicia Hemans. LINES COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY NEAR DOVER, ON THE DAY OF LANDING. HERE, ERE, on our native soil, we breathe once more. Of bells; - those boys who in yon meadow-ground Europe is yet in bonds; but let that pass, William Wordsworth. |