Roars, howls, and stifled murmurs never cease;
Hell and its agonies seem hid below.
Thick rolls the mist, that smokes and falls in dew;
The trees and greenwood wear the deepest green.
Horrible mysteries in the gulph stare through,
Roars of a million tongues, and none knows what they mean.
Similar Posts
I lost the love of heaven above,
I felt the sweets of fancied loveAnd hell itself my only foe.I lost earth’s joys but felt the glowOf heaven’s flame abound in meTill loveliness and I did growThe bard of immortality.I loved but woman fell awayI hid me from her faded fame,I snatched the sun’s eternal rayAnd wrote till earth was but a nameIn…
True as the church clock hand the hour pursues
And at the blacksmith’s shop his hour will standTo talk of ‘Lunun’ as a foreign land.For from his cottage door in peace or strifeHe neer went fifty miles in all his life.His knowledge with old notions still combinedIs twenty years behind the march of mind.He views new knowledge with suspicious eyesAnd thinks it blasphemy to…
I
The modern farmer waxes wondrous wise;Opinionates with wisdom all compact,And een could tell a nation how to act;Throws light on darkness with excessive skill,Knows who acts well and whose designs are ill,Proves half the members nought but bribery’s tools,And calls the past a dull dark age of fools.As wise as Solomon they read the news,Not…
He eats (a moment’s stoppage to his song)
And hops along and heeds with careless eyeThe passing crowded stage coach reeling bye.He talks to none but wends his silent way,And finds a hovel at the close of day,Or under any hedge his house is made.He has no calling and he owns no trade.An old smoaked blanket arches oer his head,A whisp of straw…
The Old Year’s gone away
We cannot find him all the dayNor hear him in the night:He left no footstep, mark or placeIn either shade or sun:The last year he’d a neighbour’s face,In this he’s known by none.All nothing everywhere:Mists we on mornings seeHave more of substance when they’re hereAnd more of form than he.He was a friend by every…
My Anna, summer laughs in mirth,
And leave the crickets in the hearthFor green fields’ merry minstrelsy.I see thee now with little handCatch at each object passing bye,The happiest thing in all the landExcept the bee and butterfly.* * * * *And limpid brook that leaps along,Gilt with the summer’s burnished gleam,Will stop thy little tale or songTo gaze upon its…