Supposed Address To Bishop Ken.[208]

    Though his words might well deceive me,
Though to earth abased I bend,
Christian guide, thou wilt not leave me,
Thus on earth without a friend!

    I thought his vows were oaths in heaven,
Nor dare I here my fault deny;
For all my soul to him was given,
God knows how true, how tenderly!

    Though wronged and desolate and dying,
His pride, his coldness, I forgot,
And fell upon his bosom, crying,
Forsake me not - forsake me not!

    I left my father, and my mother,
Whom I no more on earth may see,
But I have found a father, brother,
And more than every friend, in thee!

    Although his words might well deceive me,
Though wronged, and desolate I lie,
Christian guide, thou wilt not leave me,
Oh, teach me to repent and die!

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

The Legend Of St Cecilia And The Angel.

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

The Spirit Of Discovery By Sea: Analysis.

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

Song Of The Battle Of Hastings.

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

On The Death Of The Rev. William Benwell, M.A.

Thou camest with kind looks, when on the brink
Almost of death I strove, and with mild voice
Didst soothe me, bidding my poor heart rejoice,
Though smitten sore: Oh, I did little think
That thou, my friend, wouldst the first victim fall
To the stern King of Terrors! Thou didst fly,
By pity prompted, at the poor man's cry;
And soon thyself were stretched beneath the pall,
Livid infection's prey. The deep distress
Of her, who best thy inmost bosom knew,
To whom thy faith was vowed; thy soul was true,
What powers of faltering language shall express?
As friendship bids, I feebly breathe my own,
And sorrowing say, Pure spirit, thou art gone!

William Lisle Bowles

The Grave Of Bishop Ken.

    On yonder heap of earth forlorn,
Where Ken his place of burial chose,
Peacefully shine, O Sabbath morn!
And, eve, with gentlest hush, repose.

    To him is reared no marble tomb,
Within the dim cathedral fane;
But some faint flowers, of summer bloom,
And silent falls the wintry rain.

    No village monumental stone
Records a verse, a date, a name -
What boots it? when thy task is done,
Christian, how vain the sound of fame!

    Oh! far more grateful to thy God,
The voices of poor children rise,
Who hasten o'er the dewy sod,
"To pay their morning sacrifice."[207]

    And can we listen to their hymn,
Heard, haply, when the evening knell
Sounds, where the village brow is dim,
As if to bid the world farewell!

 ...

William Lisle Bowles

Written After The Consecration Of The New Church At Kingswood.

When first the fane, that, white, on Kingswood-Pen,
Arrests, far off, the pausing stranger's ken,
Echoed the hymn of praise, and on that day,
Which seemed to shine with more auspicious ray,
When thousands listened to the prelate[214] there,
Who called on God, with consecrating prayer; -
I saw a village-maid, almost a child,        7
Even as a light-haired cherub, undefiled
From earth's rank fume, with innocent look, her eye
Meekly uplifted to the throne on high,
Join in the full choir's solemn harmony.
Oh, then, how many boding thoughts arose,
Lest, long ere varied life's uncertain close,
Those looks of modesty, that open truth
Lighting the forehead of ingenuous youth -
Lest these, as slowly steal maturing years,
Should fade, and grief succeed, and dimming tea...

William Lisle Bowles

On William Sommers Of Bremhill.

When will the grave shelter thy few gray hairs,
O aged man! Thy sand is almost run,
And many a year, in vain, to meet the sun,
Thine eyes have rolled in darkness; want and cares
Have been thy visitants from morn to morn.
While trembling on existence thou dost live,
Accept what human charity can give;
But standing thus, time-palsied, and forlorn,
Like a scathed oak, of all its boughs bereft,
God and the grave are thy best refuge left.
When the bells rung, and summer's smiling ray
Welcomed again the merry Whitsuntide,
And all my humble villagers were gay;
I saw thee sitting on the highway side,
To feel once more the warm sun's blessed beam:
Didst thou then think upon thy own gay prime,
On such a holiday, and the glad time
When thou wert young and happy, lik...

William Lisle Bowles

In Memoriam

How blessed with thee the path could I have trod
Of quiet life, above cold want's hard fate,
(And little wishing more) nor of the great
Envious, or their proud name; but it pleased GOD
To take thee to his mercy: thou didst go
In youth and beauty to thy cold death-bed;
Even whilst on dreams of bliss we fondly fed,
Of years to come of comfort! Be it so.
Ere this I have felt sorrow; and even now,
Though sometimes the unbidden tear will start,
And half unman the miserable heart,
The cold dew I shall wipe from my sad brow,
And say, since hopes of bliss on earth are vain,
Best friend, farewell, till we do meet again!

William Lisle Bowles

Elegiac Stanzas - Written During Sickness At Bath.

    When I lie musing on my bed alone,
    And listen to the wintry waterfall;^[1]
    And many moments that are past and gone,
    Moments of sunshine and of joy, recall;

    Though the long night is dark and damp around,
    And no still star hangs out its friendly flame;
    And the winds sweep the sash with sullen sound,
    And freezing palsy creeps o'er all my frame;

    I catch consoling phantasies that spring
    From the thick gloom, and as the night airs beat,
    They touch my heart, like wind-swift wires^[2] that ring
    In mournful modulations, strange and sweet.

    Was it the voice of thee, my buried friend?
    Was it the whispered vow of faithful love?
    Do I in Knoyle's green shades thy steps attend,
    An...

William Lisle Bowles