And all anxieties my safe retreat, What safety, privacy, what true delight, 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 I think myself to be, Might I, in this desert place, Which most men in discourse disgrace, 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. Dover. THE CLIFFS. THERE is a cliff whose high and bending head * * * * * 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, From the dread summit of this chalky bourn William Shakespeare. ROCKS THE CLIFFS OF DOVER. OCKS of my country! let the cloud And rise ye like a fortress proud My spirit greets you as ye stand I have left rich blue skies behind, The breathings of the myrtle flowers 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 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. ERE, on our native soil, we breathe once more. HERE, The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that Of bells; - those boys who in yon meadow-ground Europe is yet in bonds; but let that pass, William Wordsworth. NEAR DOVER. INLAND, within a hollow vale, I stood; And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear, The coast of France, the coast of France how near! Drawn almost into frightful neighborhood. I shrunk; for verily the barrier flood Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll, William Wordsworth. DOVER HOTEL. ON JUAN now saw Albion's earliest beauties, DON Thy cliffs, dear Dover, harbor, and hotel; Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties; |