The bard, and minor poems By John Walker Ord ... Collected and edited by John Lodge |
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| I. |
| I. | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
 | II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
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 | The bard, and minor poems |  |
I.
A wide, wide moor, and all alone!
And the winter blasts are cold and chill;
And the snowy cliff, and desert stone,
Of the holy moonlight take their fill.
No scent is here of the flowering plain,
No city sound, nor voice of trees;
No murmur of the woodland strain,
Nor flow of stream and breeze.
And the winter blasts are cold and chill;
And the snowy cliff, and desert stone,
Of the holy moonlight take their fill.
No scent is here of the flowering plain,
No city sound, nor voice of trees;
No murmur of the woodland strain,
Nor flow of stream and breeze.
These heaths are sacred to the storm—
The storm-king, on his desert throne;
And sacred to the rapturous form
Of Bard that walks alone.
The moon hath here no spots of green,
The stars no mirror for their eyes;
Grim desolation rules the scene
With tempests from the skies.
Yet pleasant still the moorland tongue,
The language Solitude doth love;
For here hath Inspiration sung
The joys that at her heart-strings move!
Silence doth kindle heavenly lore—
Each songster hath an angel wing;
And music murmurs evermore,
And makes the hill-tops ring.
The storm-king, on his desert throne;
And sacred to the rapturous form
Of Bard that walks alone.
The moon hath here no spots of green,
The stars no mirror for their eyes;
Grim desolation rules the scene
With tempests from the skies.
Yet pleasant still the moorland tongue,
The language Solitude doth love;
4
The joys that at her heart-strings move!
Silence doth kindle heavenly lore—
Each songster hath an angel wing;
And music murmurs evermore,
And makes the hill-tops ring.
| The bard, and minor poems | |