Here will I hold my state in this wide chamber,
Far as the eye can wander carpeted
In emerald hues. Yon gorgeous canopy,
Glittering with blue and gold, o'erhangs me bravely;
The proud pines bow their heads before me, while
Some viewless harp, touch'd by the breezes, yields
High and soul-ravishing harmony.

Death , reaping the mad world, his crimson blade
Wearily swinging,
Saw him and all the beauty that he made,
And heard him singing

Immortal mockery of Death, and said
(Wearily swinging)
“Thus lay I low another dreamer's head!”
And stilled his singing.

But his proud dreams, a lyric throng, arose
(Ah, deathless singing!) . . .
Lo, there 'tis Death! How piteously he goes,
Wearily swinging.

Beautiful Loch Ness,
The truth to express,
Your landscapes are lovely and gay,
Along each side of your waters, to Fort Augustus all the way,
Your scenery is romantic…
With rocks and hills gigantic…
Enough to make one frantic,
As they view thy beautiful heathery hills,
And their clear crystal rills,
And the beautiful woodlands so green,
On a fine summer day…
From Inverness all the way…
Where the deer and the roe together doth play;
And the beautiful Falls of Foyers with its crystal spray,
As clear as the day,
Enchanting and gay,

Oh! Shepherd John is good and kind,
Oh! Shepherd John is brave;
He loves the weakest of his flock,
His arm is quick to save.

But Shepherd John to little John
Says: ‘Learn, my laddie, learn!
In grassy nooks still read your books,
And aye for knowledge burn.

Read while you tend the grazing flock:
Had I but loved my book,
I'd not be still in shepherd's frock,
Nor bearing shepherd's crook.

The world is wide, the world is fair,
There's muckle work to do.
I'll rest content a shepherd still,
But grander fields for you!’

All day the children play along the walks,
A robin sings in a brave, green tree,
The city lifts gray temples at its marge,
But still it keeps the heart of Arcady.

Still blows a flower in the waving grass,
Lifting a face of beauty to the sun;
Still bursts the bough in joyous burgeoning—
Still comes a lover when the day is done.

Here the white moon, with magic in her train,
Stoops from the starry lanes of paradise,
And, with her ancient witchery of dreams,
Lays some new hope upon a poet's eyes.

I thought of Ennerdale as of a thing
Upon the confines of my memory.
There was a hazy gleam as o'er a sheet
Of sunny water cast, and mountain side,
And much ploughed land, and cleanly cottages,
A bubbling brook, the emptying of the lake,
An indistinct remembrance of being pleased
That there were hedgerows there instead of walls,
That it was noon, and that I swam for long
In the warm lake, and dressed upon a rock:—
And this is all of verdant Ennerdale
Which I can now recover from my mind;
The current of bright years hath washed it out.

Through winter-time we call on spring,
And through the spring on summer call,
And when abounding hedges ring
Declare that winter's best of all;
And after that there's nothing good
Because the spring-time has not come—
Nor know what disturbs our blood
Is but its longing for the tomb.

Sweet mother, in a minute's span
Death parts thee and my love of thee;
Sweet love, that yet art living man,
Come back, true love, to comfort me.
Back, ah, come back! ah wellaway!
But my love comes not any day.

As roses, when the warm West blows,
Break to full flower and sweeten spring,
My soul would break to a glorious rose
In such wise at his whispering.
In vain I listen; wellaway!
My love says nothing any day.

You that will weep for pity of love
On the low place where I am lain,
I pray you, having wept enough,

The lightning came with fierce and fiery breath
And swept a human soul to instant death.

But all the air, so fever-charged before,
After the storm grew sweet with health once more.

And men reëcho that old-time refrain,
“Thus good with evil mingles—loss with gain.”

How do we know what evil is, or good?—
What, loss or gain? Ah, if we understood,

Should we thus scan God's deep but perfect way,
Singing, perchance, His goodness all astray—

In harsh discordance with that praiseful hymn
Struck from the lyres of His own cherubim?

Retire , and timely, from the world, if ever
Thou hopest tranquil days;
Its gaudy jewels from thy bosom sever,
Despise its pomp and praise
The purest star that looks into the stream
Its slightest ripple shakes,
And Peace, where'er its fiercer splendours gleam,
Her brooding nest forsakes.
The quiet planets roll with even motion
In the still skies alone;
O'er ocean they dance joyously, but ocean
They find no rest upon.