William Lisle Bowles
Biography of William Lisle Bowles
Bowles was born at Northamptonshire and educated at Trinity College, Oxford, receiving his Batchelor of Arts in 1786 and Master of Arts in 1792. He was ordained deacon in 1788. He served as curate at Wiltshire (1788), rector at Chicklade (1795), Dumbleton (1797) and Bremhill, Wiltshire (1804). He became prebendary (1804) and canon residentiary (1828) at Salisbury Cathedral. Though he mostly led a city life as a clergyman and magistrate, his writings reveal a longing for rural retirement. Though his first work was well received by the early romantic poets, most of his work is no longer read. He is remembered for his long public argument with Byron, known as the "Pope-Bowles controversy", in which Byron, along with others like Thomas Campbell, ardently defended Pope's greatness and true rank among poets.
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William Lisle Bowles Poems
Sonnet: Languid, And Sad, And Slow, From...
Languid, and sad, and slow, from day to day I journey on, yet pensive turn to view (Where the rich landscape gleams with softer hue) The streams and vales, and hills, that steal away.
Thou, whose stern spirit loves the storm, That, borne on Terror's desolating wings, Shakes the high forest, or remorseless flings
On a Beautiful Landscape
Beautiful landscape! I could look on thee For hours,--unmindful of the storm and strife, And mingled murmurs of tumultuous life. Here, all is still as fair--the stream, the tree,
Age, thou the loss of health and friends shalt mourn! But thou art passing to that night-still bourne,
Approach Of Summer
How shall I meet thee, Summer, wont to fill My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide First came, and on the Coomb's romantic side
Art And Nature
Frown ever opposite, the angel cried, Who, with an earthquake's might and giant hand,
Time and Grief
O TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest unperceived away;
As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds, Still on that vision which is flown I dwell, On images I loved, alas, too well!
Whose was that gentle voice, that, whispering sweet, Promised methought long days of bliss sincere! Soothing it stole on my deluded ear, Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat
When I lie musing on my bed alone, And listen to the wintry waterfall;
There is strange music in the stirring wind, When lowers the autumnal eve, and all alone To the dark wood's cold covert thou art gone,
Avenue In Savernake Forest
How soothing sound the gentle airs that move The innumerable leaves, high overhead, When autumn first, from the long avenue,
At Tynemouth Priory
As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side, Much musing on the track of terror past,
Battle Of Corruna
The tide of fate rolls on!--heart-pierced and pale, The gallant soldier lies, nor aught avail,
XI. Written at Ostend
HOW sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal!
As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze
Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease,
So piercing to my heart their force I feel!
And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall,
And now, along the white and level tide,
They fling their melancholy music wide,
Bidding me many a tender thought recall
Of summer-days, and those delightful years,