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Frowns are on every Muse's face,Reproaches from their lips are sent,That mimicry should thus disgraceThe noble Instrument. A very Harp in all but size!Needles for strings in apt gradation!Minerva's self would stigmatizeThe unclassic profanation. Even her 'own' needle that subduedArachne's rival spirit,Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood,Such honour could not … [Read more...] about On Seeing A Needlecase In The Form Of A Harp – The Work Of E.M.S., By: William Wordsworth

The captive Bird was gone; to cliff or moorPerchance had flown, delivered by the storm;Or he had pined, and sunk to feed the worm:Him found we not: but, climbing, a tall tower,There saw, impaved with rude fidelityOf art mosaic, in a roofless floor,An Eagle with stretched wings, but beamless eyeAn Eagle that could neither wail nor soar.Effigy of the Vanished, (shall I dareTo … [Read more...] about On Revisiting Dunolly Castle, By: William Wordsworth

The feudal Keep, the bastions of Cohorn,Even when they rose to check or to repelTides of aggressive war, oft served as wellGreedy ambition, armed to treat with scornJust limits; but yon Tower, whose smiles adornThis perilous bay, stands clear of all offense;Blest work it is of love and innocence,A Tower of refuge built for the else forlorn.Spare it, ye waves, and lift the … [Read more...] about On Entering Douglas Bay, Isle Of Man, By: William Wordsworth

By Art's bold privilege Warrior and War-horse standOn ground yet strewn with their last battle's wreck;Let the Steed glory while his Master's handLies fixed for ages on his conscious neck;But by the Chieftain's look, though at his sideHangs that day's treasured sword, how firm a checkIs given to triumph and all human pride!Yon trophied Mound shrinks to a shadowy speckIn his … [Read more...] about On A Portrait Of The Duke Of Wellington Upon The Field Of Waterloo, By Haydon, By: William Wordsworth

We gaze, nor grieve to think that we must die,But that the precious love this friend hath sownWithin our hearts, the love whose flower hath blownBright as if heaven were ever in its eye,Will pass so soon from human memory;And not by strangers to our blood alone,But by our best descendants be unknown,Unthought of this may surely claim a sigh.Yet, blessed Art, we yield not to … [Read more...] about On A Portrait Of I. F., Painted By Margaret Gillies, By: William Wordsworth