John Bradford

There may be lands more fair than mine,
With skies of cloudless blue,
Where morning's dewdrops brighter shine
On flowers of deeper hue,
...

On a rough winter's night, when the stormy winds blew,
'Till the tiles from the top of my lone dwelling flew.
And against my frail lattice came pouring amain,
The big, hurrying drops of the storm-driven rain,
...

A little while, and I shall be
Fated to dwell afar from thee,
Our wild wood haunts no more to see.
My Clare.
...

Oh ! do not doubt, my gentle Clare,
The love of this fond heart ;
For could I gaze on forms more fair,
From thee 'twould ne'er depart.
...

THE QUESTION.

DEAR to the bright cerulean sky
Unstirr'd the silvery cloudlets lie ;
...

The painful hour too fast is nearing
When I must leave the scenes of old,
And lose all friendship's joys endearing,
Without which life is drear and cold ;
...

Though gentle, loving, pure, and fair
A little maid of promise rare,
Who might in life's eventful race
Have won a bright and envied place—
...

A Fragment.

In Fancy's realm I saw a teeming vale
In which there lay a homestead old and rude,
...

Bloom doubly fair, sweet flowers, to-day.
And all your rarest hues display.
For Clare has left her couch of pain,
And longs to see your forms again.
...

Come to the Wyeside ! come with me !
Unhappy here thou canst but be ;
For gentle hearts abhor the strife
That is in towns for ever rife.
...

OH ! deem me not cruel, bright, many-hu'd flowers,
That I bear you away from the meads and the bowers,
Where the butterfly might on your petals alight.
And the breeze gather perfume to shed in its flight ;
...

FROM sunny climes, beyond the main,
Come, potent Spring,
On rapid wing,
And glorify our isle again.
...

DIDST thou but know how soon, bright stream,
Thy charms thou must forego,
And be no more the poet's theme,
So fast thou wouldst not flow,
...

Come away, gentle Clare, to the banks of the Wye,
While the stars of the earth shine to gladden thine eye,
And the sward of the dell by the hazel-wood grove
Is a carpet most meet for thy light feet to rove ;
...

Farewell to thee, enchanting Wye !
The day is drawing near
When I must bid thy banks good bye,
For banks not half so dear :
...

I'm growing old, I'm growing old,
My hair is ting'd with gray ;
In search of pleasure, fame, and gold,
I've worn my life away ;
...

I love to ream a calm, secluded dell,
Where all the softest charms of nature dwell.
When from the hills around, wood-crown'd and high.
Fair Spring-time's tuneful rills go glancing by.
...

When by the ills of life dismay'd,
I pine in sorrow, pain, and care.
And deem the crosses on me laid
More weighty than my soul can bear ;
...