O my beloved nymph! fair Dove!
Princess of rivers! how I love
Upon the flowery banks to lie,
And view thy silver stream
When gilded by a summer's beam!
And in it all thy wanton fry
Playing at liberty;

And, with my angle, upon them
The all of treachery

I ever learned industriously to try.

Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show,
The Iberian Tagus or Ligurian Po;

The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine

Are puddle-water all, compared with thine;

And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are
With thine much purer to compare;

The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine
Are both too mean,

Beloved Dove, with thee

To vie priority;

Nay, Thame and Isis when conjoined submit,
And lay their trophies at thy silver feet.

O my beloved rocks! that rise

To awe the earth and brave the skies;
From some aspiring mountain's crown,
How dearly do I love,

Giddy with pleasure, to look down,

And from the vales to view the noble heights above! O my beloved caves! from Dog-star's heat

And all anxieties my safe retreat,

What safety, privacy, what true delight,
In the artificial night

Your gloomy entrails make,

Have I taken, do I take!

How oft, when grief has made me fly,

To hide me from society

Even of my dearest friends, have I

In your recesses' friendly shade

All my sorrows open laid,

And my most secret woes intrusted to your privacy!

Lord! would men let me alone,

What an over-happy one

Should think myself to be,

Might I, in this desert place,

Which most men in discourse disgrace,
Live but undisturbed and free!
Here in this despised recess

Would I, maugre winter's cold

And the summer's worst excess,

Try to live out to sixty full years old! And all the while,

Without an envious eye

On any thriving under Fortune's smile,

Contented live, and then

contented die.

Charles Cotton.

THERE

Dover.

THE CLIFFS.

HERE is a cliff whose high and bending head
Looks fearfully in the confinéd deep.

Come on, sir; here's the place; stand still. How

fearful

And dizzy 't is, to cast one's eyes so low!

The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air,
Show scarce so gross as beetles: half-way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade!
Methinks he seems no bigger than his head:
The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,
Appear like mice; and yond' tall anchoring bark
Diminished to her cock; her cock, a buoy
Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge,
That on the unnumbered idle pebbles chafes,
Cannot be heard so high: — I'll look no more;
Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight
Topple down headlong.

*

*

*

*

*

From the dread summit of this chalky bourn

Look up a-height; the shrill-gorged lark so far
Cannot be seen or heard.

William Shakespeare.

ROCKS

THE CLIFFS OF DOVER.

of my country! let the cloud Your crested heights array,

And rise ye like a fortress proud
Above the surge and spray!

My spirit greets you as ye stand
Breasting the billow's foam:
O, thus forever guard the land,
The severed land of home!

I have left rich blue skies behind,
Lighting up classic shrines,
And music in the southern wind,
And sunshine on the vines.

The breathings of the myrtle flowers
Have floated o'er my way;
The pilgrim's voice, at vesper hours,
Hath soothed me with its lay.

The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain,

The purple heavens of Rome, Yes, all are glorious; yet again I bless thee, land of home!

For thine the sabbath peace, my land! And thine the guarded hearth;

And thine the dead, the noble band

That make thee holy earth.

Their voices meet me in thy breeze,
Their steps are on thy plains;
Their names, by old majestic trees,
Are whispered round thy fanes.

Their blood hath mingled with the tide

Of thine exulting sea;

O, be it still a joy, a pride,

To live and die for thee!

Felicia Hemans.

LINES

COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY NEAR DOVER, ON THE DAY OF LANDING.

HERE,

ERE, on our native soil, we breathe once more.
The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that
sound

Of bells; - those boys who in yon meadow-ground
In white-sleeved shirts are playing; and the roar
Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore;
All, all are English. Oft have I looked round.
With joy in Kent's green vales; but never found
Myself so satisfied in heart before.

Europe is yet in bonds; but let that pass,
Thought for another moment. Thou art free,
My country! and 't is joy enough and pride
For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass
Of England once again, and hear and see,
With such a dear companion at my side.

William Wordsworth.