Thomas Noon Talfourd Poems

No fields of Death, no hero's deeds I sing,
No splendid conquest, no victorious King
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A mighty sorrow gathers while the eye
Is by the sunset's waning glories fed,
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Lives there a man whose harden'd soul
Ne'er felt soft Pity's kind control;
Ne'er learn'd for others' joys to glow,
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There is a holy magic in that tone,
Can wake from memory's selectest cell
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Soft uplands, that in boyhood's earliest days
Seem'd mountain-like and distant, fain once more
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Hark! from the distant town the long acclaim
On the charm'd silence of the evening breaks
With startling interruption;-yet it wakes
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Too long have I regarded thee, fair vale,
But as a scene of struggle which denies
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There is no father, who, with swimming eyes,
Has seen thee prese ...
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How simple in their grandeur are the forms
That constitute this picture! Nature grants
Scarce more than sternest cynic might desire-
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What Muse, my soul, awakes thy trembling lyre,
And fills my ardent breast with conscious fir ...
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