Worcester Cathedral, A Grave-Stone in,
Wordsworth, John, Elegiac Verses in memory of,
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 the mountains were we nursed, loved Stream,
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, .
An Orpheus! an Orpheus! yes, Faith may grow bold,
Another year!-another deadly blow,
A Pilgrim, when the summer day,
A plague on your languages, German and Norse,
A pleasant music floats along the Mere,
As, when a storm hath ceased, the birds regain,
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind,
A winged 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, .
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, blessed are ye, if deep,
Black Demons hovering o'er his mitred head,.
Bleak Season was it, turbulent and wild,
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,
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,
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,
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,
Dread hour! when, upheaved by war's sulphurous blast,
Driven in by Autumn's sharpening air,
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