Alaric Alexander Watts

A cloud is on my heart and brow,
The tears are in my eyes,
And wishes fond, all idle now,
Are stifled into sighs;—
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The present moment's all our own,
The next, who ever saw! ~ Mickle.

Come, fill me up a brimming cup,
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Murmurings from within
Were heard, sonorous cadences, whereby
To his belief the monitor expressed
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I've roamed the wide world over,
From Indus to the Pole;
I've been a general lover,
And loved with all my soul;
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Meet me at sunset, the hour we love best,
Ere day's last crimson blushes have died in the west;
When the shadowless ether is blue as thine eye,
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Oh, burst the bonds of slumber,
Beloved, awake, ari ...
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Mysterious keeper of the key
That opes the gates of Memory,
Oft, in thy wildest, simplest strain,
We live o'er years of bliss again!
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It was the dead midnight;
No star was in the sky;
The struggling moon shed a troubled light
As she won her way on high;
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It is the same clear dazzling scene,
Perhaps the grass is scarce as green;
Perhaps the river's troubled voice,
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O! it is pleasant, with a heart at ease,
Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,
To make the shifting clouds be what you please. ~
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O, ye have lost,
Mountains, and moors, and meads, the radiant throng
That peopled your green solitudes, and filled
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Dear Poet of Hope! who hast charmed us so long
With thy strains of home-music, sweet, solemn, and strong;
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Oh! say not thou art all alone
Upon this wide, cold-hearted earth;
Sigh not o'er joys for ever flown,
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'Tis now that softening hour
When love hath deepest power,
To stir the fond heart with its dreams of delight;
When even the sickening thrill
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HE left his home with a bounding heart,
For the world was all before him;
And he felt it scarce a pain to part,
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The poetry of earth is fading fast;
It hath no region it can call its own;
The dim, religious light of old that cast
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I will never love thee more,
Though I loved thee once so well;
Why, a prodigal, the store
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Stranger! if from the crowded walks of life
Thou lovest to stray, and woo fair Solitude
Amid her woodland bowers;—silent to brood,
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By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed;
By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed;
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned;
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Queen Victoria at Spithead. Written on the Occassion of the Review by Her Majesty, of the Experimental Fleet Under the
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