And loved you glittering in your bowers, A starry multitude. We all must surely die, though it seem ill. All that green that graced the year, Now is dying, brown and sere. All the world’s joy, how it all goes to nought. Imperial lord of the high southern coast ! How erring oft the judgment in its hate, Or fond desire! And thee, my Turner, who in vacant youth, Here oft in converse free, or studious search Of classic lore, accompanied my walk! Oft in glimmering bowers and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. Even Gallic Abbeville the shining fleece, That richly decorates her loom, acquires Basely from Albion, by the ensnaring bribe, The bait of avarice, which, with felon fraud, For its own wanton mouth, from thousands steals. The rifted shores, and from the continent Eternally divided this green isle. Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Who kneels upon the glittering heap, and starves. Oft I sigh and mourn full sair, When there cometh to my thought. To private woes then oft has memory pass'd, And mourn'd the loss of many a friend belov'd; Of thee, De Horne, kind, generous, wise, and good! And loved you glittering in your bowers A starry multitude. Oft in glimmering bowers and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. But hark the word!—the Ship is gone;— From her long course returns:—anon Sets sail:—in season due Once more on English earth they stand: But, when a third time from the land They parted, sorrow was at hand For Him and for his Crew. Oft in glimmering bowers and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida’s inmost grove, Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. But hark the word!--the ship is gone;-- Returns from her long course:--anon Sets sail:--in season due, Once more on English earth they stand: But, when a third time from the land They parted, sorrow was at … Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of cypress lawn Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Poem by Edmund Spenser - Virgils Gnat, Wrong'd, yet not daring to expresse my paine not s From thy projecting head-land I would mark Far in the east the shades of night disperse, Melting and thinned, as from the dark blue wave Emerging, brilliant rays of arrowy light Dart from the horizon; when the glorious sun Just lifts above it his resplendent orb. WHEN Contemplation, like the nig Through earth and sky, spreads wid Into the soul its tranquillising p Even then I sometimes grieve for Earth’s paramount Creature! Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of cypress lawn Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of cypress lawn, Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of cypress lawn Over thy decent shoulders drawn. From Ware's green bowers to Devon's myrtle vales, Now it is, now no more seen; Gone as it had never been, Many men say truth, I ween, That all goes by God’s will. Oft in glimmering bowers and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove.
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