What loud uproar bursts from that door! The wedding-guests are there: But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are: And hark the little vesper-bell Which biddeth me to prayer! O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea: So lonely ’twas, that God Himself Scarce seemed there to be. O sweeter than the marriage-feast, ’Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company— To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay! Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! He prayeth well who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. He prayeth best who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all. The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom’s door. He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn; A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow-morn. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 1775–1864 ROSE AYLMER AH, what avails the sceptred race, Ah, what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these watchful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. EPITAPH I STROVE with none, for none were worth my strife. Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art, I warmed both hands before the fire of life; It sinks, and I am ready to depart. CHILD OF A DAY CHILD of a day, thou knowest not The tears that overflow thine urn, The gushing eyes that read thy lot, Nor, if thou knewest, could’st return! And why the wish! the pure and blest Watch, like thy mother, o’er thy sleep; O peaceful night! O envied rest! Thou wilt not ever see her weep. THOMAS CAMPBELL 1767–1844 HOHENLINDEN ON Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neighed To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven; Then rushed the steed, to battle driven; And louder than the bolts of Heaven Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden’s hills of stained snow; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.