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The Poetical Works of Robert Story

Story, Robert (1795-1860)

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[section]
  
[dedication]
  
The Heath is Green.
  
With Me, my Love, Repair.
  
O Thou art Fair.
  
O! Stay with Me.
  
Bright was the Eye.
  
I Love Her!
  
Hushed the World.
  
Winter is Gone.
  
O! Calm, my Love.
  
Thou Fairest Maid.
  
O! to Rest beside Thee.
  
On Skipton's Vales.
  
To the Northern Breeze.
  
My Love is not yon Wild Rose.
  
O! Love has a favourite Scene.
  
The Star of Eve.
  
Fairer than the Fairest Blossom.
  
The Flower of Malhamdale.
  
O these are not mine own Hills.
  
Pours the Spring.
  
How Sleep the Dead.
  
I shall never See it More.
  
The Young Poet Dying at a Distance from Home.
  
An Eye in its dark-glancing Beauty.
  
The Splendours of Sunset.
  
Look round on this World.
  
I sought the Halls.
  
Exposed in Life's.
  
I have heard of Fair Climes.
  
In May's Expansive Ether.
  
In my Hey-day of Youth.
  
The Rayless Night.
  
Another Year.
  
'Tis not by Day.
  
When Time my Youthful Eye.
  
Where, Loved One! is thy Dwelling now?
  
The Wild Thyme still Blossoms.
  
Mary Lee.
  
Ah! Will there a Time Come.
  
Edward Stanley.
  
Be Still, my Wild Heart.
  
Shake from thee that Rain-drop.
  
Fitz-Hartil.
  
Mark, Ellen, how Fair.
  
Long within the Danish Camp.
  
I gang frae Thee.
  
Beaumont Side.
  
Sun-Gleams along the Mountains.
  
The Mood is on my Soul.
  
The Fountain,
  
The Poet's Home.
  
There's a Dark Hour Coming.
  
One April Morn.
  
Reply to an Epistle from Mr. Gourley.
  
Twenty Years Parted
  
Breathe, Breathe on my Heart.
  
The Dead stood by.
  
O Woman, Fair Woman.
  
It is Sweet to Perceive.
  
O! Blest is the Hearth.
  
The few Corn-fields.
  
Again the Sweetest Season.
  
Wethercote Cave.
  
With Bounding Step.
  
I know thou Lov'st me.
  
The Isles are Awake!
  
The Church of our Fathers.
  
The Bride is Away
  
Stop, O Stop the Passing-Bell.
  
The Wives and the Mothers of Britain.
  
The Wane of the Day.
  
The Ancient Barons.
  
It is Sad, very Sad.
  
The Friends that I Loved.
  
Sweet Beaumont Side.
  
Your Name May be Noble.
  
O Lay him by his Father!
  
She is Falling by Grief.
  
The Vows thou hast spoken.
  
It is Sweet on this fair Bark.
  
The Music of another Spring.
  
I saw her in the Violet time.
  
The Hills of my Birth-place.
  
Though almost Twenty Years.
  
The Union Workhouse.
  
O Faded Leaf.
  
The Rose of the Isles.
  
I was Born in a Cot.
  
An Englishman's Wife.
  
I Blame thee not, World!
  
Dear Hudson.
  
She shall not Die.
  
Ingleboro' Cave.
  
O Spare the Kind Heart.
  
Yon Lass ye See.
  
Poor Mary.
  
A Happy New Year.
  
O Sing to me no Modish Tune.
  
The Day is Gane.
  
Mute is the Lyre of Ebor.
  
I would not pass from Earth.
  
Above the Line of Lamps.
  
It Ne'er was Spak'.
  
The Bonnie Pink Flower.
  
Mony Auld Frien's.
  
O let us be Friendly?
  
We often Laughed at Fanny.
  
My William.
  
The Chain is Broken, Father.
  
Sleep, my Mary!
  
'Tis Sweet to Escape.
  
E'en now, when the Winds.
  
At Parker's Tomb.
  
O Scorn not the Plough!
  
My Bark is on the Tyne.
  
When Freedom.
  
The Seasons in Passing.
  
In Youth our Fathers.
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Guthrum the Dane:
  
Introduction. TO THE SOUL OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
 I. 
CANTO I.
 II. 
CANTO II.
 III. 
CANTO III.
 IV. 
CANTO IV.
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CANTO V.
 I. 
I
 II. 
II.
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III.
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IV.
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 VI. 
VI.
 VII. 
VII.
 VIII. 
VIII.
 IX. 
IX.
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X.
 XI. 
XI.
 XII. 
XII.
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XIII.
 XIV. 
XIV.
 XV. 
XV.
 XVI. 
XVI.
 XVII. 
XVII.
 XVIII. 
XVIII.
 XIX. 
XIX.
 XX. 
XX.
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CANTO VI.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
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III.
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VII.
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VIII.
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IX.
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X.
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XI.
 XII. 
XII.
  
XIII.
 XIV. 
XIV. Song continued.
 XV. 
XV.
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XVI.
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XVII.
 XVIII. 
XVIII.
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XIX.
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XX.
 XXI. 
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XXIII.
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XXVI.
  
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My Blessing on.
  
Fairest of all Stars.
  
You have Heard.
  
The Peerage of Industry.
  
Who would not be Proud of Old England?
  
We Rear no War-defying flag.
  
Bring out the Old War-Flag.
  
She tried to Smile.
  
Our Nightingale's Fame.
  
Sebastopol is Low!
  
The Zephyr of May.
  
A Being there is.

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5

Bright was the Eye.

1819.
[_]

On the same.

Bright was the eye that beamed on me,
My bosom coldly thrilling;
Like moonshine on a winter sea,
'Twas beautiful, but chilling!
And never did so sweet a tongue
So harsh a sentence carry;
My hopes are crushed, my heart is wrung,
By Roddam's lovely Mary!
In vain I prized her charms beyond
Proud Valour's richest capture;
In vain my fancy, young and fond,
Had dreams of nought but rapture;
In vain, in truth of heart, I swore
Its pulse no more should vary;
My truth is scorned, my heart is sore
For Roddam's lovely Mary!
Ye mountains, rich with purple heath,
That heard my earliest numbers;
Ye briery glens, that fragrance breathe,
Whose music seldom slumbers;
Less torn my bosom now will be
To leave your charms so fairy,
Since feelingless and cold to me
Is Roddam's lovely Mary!
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