Lines Written On Fonthill Abbey.

The mighty master waved his wand, and, lo!
On the astonished eye the glorious show
Burst like a vision! Spirit of the place!
Has the Arabian wizard with his mace
Smitten the barren downs, far onward spread,
And bade the enchanted palace rise instead?
Bade the dark woods their solemn shades extend,
High to the clouds yon spiry tower ascend?
And starting from the umbrageous avenue
Spread the rich pile, magnificent to view?
Enter! From the arched portal look again,
Back on the lessening woods and distant plain!
Ascend the steps! The high and fretted roof
Is woven by some elfin hand aloof;
Whilst from the painted windows' long array
A mellow light is shed as not of day.
How gorgeous all! Oh, never may the spell
Be broken, that arrayed those radiant forms so well!

William Lisle Bowles

William Lisle Bowles was an English cleric, poet, and critic who was born on 24th September 1762 and died on 7th April 1850. He is best known for his sonnets, which were highly praised by the Romantic poets. Bowles's work significantly influenced Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth. Besides his poetry, he wrote extensively on literary criticism and editing. Bowles spent much of his clerical career in Wiltshire and Gloucestershire.

William Lisle Bowles

On Entering Switzerland

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

The Missionary. Introduction

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

The Children's Hymn For Their Patroness. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

Inscribed To The Marchioness Of Lansdowne

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

English

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Cadland,[1] Southampton River.

If ever sea-maid, from her coral cave,
Beneath the hum of the great surge, has loved
To pass delighted from her green abode,
And, seated on a summer bank, to sing
No earthly music; in a spot like this,
The bard might feign he heard her, as she dried
Her golden hair, yet dripping from the main,
In the slant sunbeam.
So the pensive bard
Might image, warmed by this enchanting scene,
The ideal form; but though such things are not,
He who has ever felt a thought refined;
He who has wandered on the sea of life,
Forming delightful visions of a home
Of beauty and repose; he who has loved,
With filial warmth his country, will not pass
Without a look of more than tenderness
On all the scene; from where the pensile birch
Bends on the bank, amid the clustered gr...

William Lisle Bowles

Southampton Castle.[1] - Inscribed To The Marquis Of Lansdowne.

The moonlight is without; and I could lose
An hour to gaze, though Taste and Splendour here,
As in a lustrous fairy palace, reign!
Regardless of the lights that blaze within,
I look upon the wide and silent sea,
That in the shadowy moonbeam sleeps:
    How still,
Nor heard to murmur, or to move, it lies;
Shining in Fancy's eye, like the soft gleam,
The eve of pleasant yesterdays!
    The clouds
Have all sunk westward, and the host of stars
Seem in their watches set, as gazing on;
While night's fair empress, sole and beautiful,
Holds her illustrious course through the mid heavens
Supreme, the spectacle, for such she looks,
Of gazing worlds!
    How different is the scene
That lies beneath this arched window's height!
The town, that murmured throu...

William Lisle Bowles

Shakspeare

    O sovereign Master! who with lonely state
    Dost rule as in some isle's enchanted land,
    On whom soft airs and shadowy spirits wait,
    Whilst scenes of "faerie" bloom at thy command,
    On thy wild shores forgetful could I lie,
    And list, till earth dissolved to thy sweet minstrelsy!

    Called by thy magic from the hoary deep,
    Aërial forms should in bright troops ascend,
    And then a wondrous masque before me sweep;
    Whilst sounds, that the earth owned not, seem to blend
    Their stealing melodies, that when the strain
    Ceased, I should weep, and would so dream again!

    The song hath ceased. Ah! who, pale shade, art thou,
    Sad raving to the rude tempestuous night!
    Sure thou hast had much wrong, so stern thy...

William Lisle Bowles

Composed Upon An Evening Of Extraordinary Splendour And Beauty

I

Had this effulgence disappeared
With flying haste, I might have sent,
Among the speechless clouds, a look
Of blank astonishment;
But 'tis endued with power to stay,
And sanctify one closing day,
That frail Mortality may see,
What is? ah no, but what 'can' be!
Time was when field and watery cove
With modulated echoes rang,
While choirs of fervent Angels sang
Their vespers in the grove;
Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height,
Warbled, for heaven above and earth below,
Strains suitable to both. Such holy rite,
Methinks, if audibly repeated now
From hill or valley, could not move
Sublimer transport, purer love,
Than doth this silent spectacle, the gleam,
The shadow and the peace supreme!

II

No sound is...

William Wordsworth

Wardour Castle

If rich designs of sumptuous art may please,
Or Nature's loftier views, august and old,
Stranger! behold this spreading scene; behold
This amphitheatre of aged trees,
That solemn wave above thee, and around
Darken the towering hills! Dost thou complain
That thou shouldst cope with penury or pain,
Or sigh to think what pleasures might be found
Amid such wide possessions! Pause awhile;
Imagine thou dost see the sick man smile;
See the pale exiles, that in yonder dome,
Safe from the wasteful storm, have found a home;^[1]
And thank the Giver of all good, that lent
To the humane, retired, beneficent,
The power to bless. Nor lift thy heart elate,
If such domains be thine; but emulate
The fair example, and those deeds, that rise
Like holy incense wafte...

William Lisle Bowles

Ode On The Poetical Character

As once, if not with light regard,
I read aright that gifted bard,
(Him whose school above the rest
His loveliest Elfin Queen has blest,)
One, only one, unrivald fair,
Might hope the magic girdle wear,
At solemn tourney hung on high,
The wish of each love-darting eye;
Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied,
As if, in air unseen, some hovring hand,
Some chaste and angel-friend to virgin-fame,
With whisperd spell had burst the starting band,
It left unblest her loathd dishonourd side;
Happier, hopeless fair, if never
Her baffled hand with vain endeavour
Had touchd that fatal zone to her denied!
Young Fancy thus, to me divinest name,
To whom, prepard and bathd in Heavn,
The cest of amplest powr is givn:
To few the god-like gift assigns,...

William Collins