Eternal Lord! eased of a cumbrous load

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
Even so for me a vision sanctified

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate.
Fair is the swan, whose majesty, prevailing
Fair land! Thee all men greet with joy; how few
Fair star of evening, splendour of the west.
Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless heap.
Farewell, deep valley, with thy one rude house
Farewell, thou little nook of mountain-ground
Festivals have I seen that were not names

Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Flattered with promise of escape

Fly, some kind harbinger, to Grasmere dale!

For action born, existing to be tried
Forbear to deem the chronicler unwise
For gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes
Forgive, illustrious country! these deep sighs
Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose base
Four years and thirty, told this very week.
From Nature doth emotion come, and moods
From Stirling castle we have seen

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From this deep chasm, where quivering sunbeams play

From the fierce aspect of this river, throwing

From the pier's head, musing, and with increase.

Genius of Raphael! if thy wings

Glad sight it is when new with old
Glide gently, thus for ever glide

Great men have been among us; hands that penned
Grief, thou hast lost an ever-ready friend
Grieve for the man who hither came bereft.

Had this effulgence disappeared

Hail to the fields, with dwellings sprinkled o'er
Happy the feeling from the bosom thrown.
Harmonious powers with Nature work
Hast thou seen, with flash incessant

Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more
Here stood an oak, that long had borne affixed
High in the breathless hall the minstrel sate
High is our calling, friend! creative Art
High on her speculative tower

Hope rules a land for ever green

Hope smiled when your nativity was cast

Hopes what are they? Beads of morning.
How blest the maid whose heart, yet free
"How disappeared he?" Ask the newt and toad

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How profitless the relics that we cull .
How sad a welcome! To each voyager
How shall I paint thee?--Be this naked stone

I am not one who much or oft delight
I come, ye little noisy crew

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If from the public way you turn your steps

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If life were slumber on a bed of down
If Nature, for a favourite child.

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If this great world of joy and pain

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If thou in the dear love of some one friend.

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If to tradition faith be due

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If with old love of you, dear hills! I share.

In one of those excursions (may they ne'er .

In youth from rock to rock I went

I rose while yet the cattle, heat-opprest

I saw an aged beggar in my walk

I saw far off the dark top of a pine

I shiver, spirit fierce and bold

Is then the final page before me spread
Is there no nook of English ground secure
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 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 dreary morning when the wheels
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!

Jesu! bless our slender boat

Jones when from Calais southward you and I

Lady! the songs of spring were in the grove
Let other bards of angels sing

Let us quit the leafy harbour

List-'twas the cuckoo-O with what delight
Lo! in the burning west, the craggy nape.

Long has the dew been dried on tree and lawn
Long time his pulse hath ceased to beat
Lord of the vale! astounding flood
Loud is the vale! the voice is up
Lovelier far than this, the paradise
Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells.

Meek virgin mother, more benign
Methinks 'twere no unprecedented feat
'Mid crowded obelisks and urns
Mid-noon is passed; upon the sultry mead
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour
Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes.
Mourn, shepherd, near thy old grey stone
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
No fiction was it of the antique age
No more the end is sudden and abrupt
No record tells of lance opposed to lance
Not a breath of air

Not envying Latian shades, if yet they throw
Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep.
Not, like his great com peers, indignantly
Not so that pair whose youthful spirits dance
Not the whole warbling grove in concert heard
Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright
Now that the farewell tear is dried
Now we are tired of boisterous joy
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room

O blithe new-comer! I have heard

.

O dearer far than light and life are dear

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

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Oft is the medal faithful to its trust

Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope
Oft, through thy fair domains, illustrious Peer!

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O mountain Stream! the shepherd and his cot
Once did she hold the gorgeous east in fee.
Once on the top of Tynwald's formal mound
One morning (raw it was and wet

One, the fairest of all rivers, loved

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O nightingale! thou surely art

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On loitering muse, the swift stream chides us, on

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O pleasant exercise of hope and joy !.

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O Thou! whose fancies from afar are brought

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Our walk was far among the ancient trees
Over the smooth sands

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies

Part fenced by man, part by a rugged steep
Pause, traveller! whosoe'er thou be
Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side.
Pleasures newly found are sweet

Ranging the heights of Scawfell or Blackcomb
Rapt above earth by power of one fair face
Return, Content! for fondly I pursued
Rude is this edifice, and thou hast seen

Sacred Religion! "mother of form and fear"
Sad thoughts, avant!-partake we their blithe cheer
Say, ye far-travell'd clouds, far-seeing hills
Scorn not the sonnet, Critic, you have frowned
See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built cot
See, where his difficult way that old man wins
Seven daughters had Lord Archibald

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.
Since risen from ocean, ocean to defy
Six months to six years added he remained
Six thousand veterans practised in war's game
Small service is true service while it lasts
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

Stay, little cheerful robin! stay.

Stay, bold adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs

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 misshapen stones
Such fruitless questions may not long beguile

Sweet flower! belike one day to have
Sweet Highland girl, a very shower

Take, cradled nursling of the mountain, take
Thanks for the lessons of this spot, fit school
That way look, my infant, lo! .

The Baptist might have been ordained to cry

The cock is crowing.

The embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine

The floods are roused, and will not soon be weary

The forest huge of ancient Caledon

The gallant youth, who may have gained

The gentlest shade that walked Elysian plains
The Kirk of Ulpha to the pilgrim's eye

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The lovers took within this ancient grove

The minstrels played their Christmas tune
The moving accident is not my trade.
The old inventive poets, had they seen

There is a change, and I am poor

There is a flower, the lesser celandine

There is a little unpretending rill

There is an Eminence, of these our hills

There is a Thorn-it looks so old

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 linnet's warble, sinking towards a close
The little hedgerow birds

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The pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute

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There is a yew-tree, pride of Lorton vale

There!" said a stripling, pointing with meet pride

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There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs

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There was a roaring in the wind all night

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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream

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"These tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live.

The sun is couched, the sea fowl gone to rest

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The sun, that seemed so mildly to retire

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The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields

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The unremitting voice of nightly streams
The valley rings with mirth and joy
The wanderer said