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And is this, Yarrow? 'This' the StreamOf which my fancy cherished,So faithfully, a waking dream?An image that hath perished!O that some Minstrel's harp were near,To utter notes of gladness,And chase this silence from the air,That fills my heart with sadness! Yet why? a silvery current flowsWith uncontrolled meanderings;Nor have these eyes by greener hillsBeen soothed, in all … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland 1814 – IV. Yarrow Visited – September 1814, By: William Wordsworth

What He who, 'mid the kindred throngOf Heroes that inspired his song,Doth yet frequent the hill of storms,The stars dim-twinkling through their forms!What! Ossian here, a painted Thrall,Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall;To serve, an unsuspected screenFor show that must not yet be seen;And, when the moment comes, to partAnd vanish by mysterious art;Head, harp, and body, split … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland 1814 – III. Effusion – In The Pleasure-Ground On The Banks Of The Bran, Near Dunkeld, By: William Wordsworth

"How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the nameOf Wallace to be found, like a wild flower,All over his dear Country; left the deedsOf Wallace, like a family of ghosts,To people the steep rocks and river banks,Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soulOf independence and stern liberty."- See The Prelude, Book I, Lines 214-20. Lord of the vale! astounding Flood;The dullest … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland 1814 – II. Composed At Cora Linn – In Sight Of Wallace’s Tower, By: William Wordsworth

Too frail to keep the lofty vowThat must have followed when his browWas wreathed "The Vision" tells us howWith holly spray,He faltered, drifted to and fro,And passed away. Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throngOur minds when, lingering all too long,Over the grave of Burns we hungIn social griefIndulged as if it were a wrongTo seek relief. But, leaving each unquiet … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, By: William Wordsworth

As indignation mastered grief, my tongueSpake bitter words; words that did ill agreeWith those rich stores of Nature's imagery,And divine Art, that fast to memory clungThy gifts, magnificent Region, ever youngIn the sun's eye, and in his sister's sightHow beautiful! how worthy to be sungIn strains of rapture, or subdued delight!I feign not; witness that unwelcome shockThat … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – XXVI. – Continued, By: William Wordsworth