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
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,
Ix. O Poverty! Though From Thy Haggard E...
O POVERTY! though from thy haggard eye, Thy cheerless mein, of every charm bereft, Thy brow, that hope's last traces long have left,
On Leaving A Village In Scotland
Clysdale! as thy romantic vales I leave, And bid farewell to each retiring hill, Where musing memory seems to linger still,
Sonnet: At Dover Cliffs, July 20th 1787
On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet, Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat, Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;
Thou, whose stern spirit loves the storm, That, borne on Terror's desolating wings, Shakes the high forest, or remorseless flings
Xiii. O Time! Who Know'st A Lenient Hand...
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) Stealest the long-forgotten pang away;
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,
On Leaving A Place Of Residence
If I could bid thee, pleasant shade, farewell Without a sigh, amidst whose circling bowers My stripling prime was passed, and happiest hours,
The Dying Slave
Faint-gazing on the burning orb of day, When Afric's injured son expiring lay, His forehead cold, his labouring bosom bare,
The Right Honourable Edmund Burke
Why mourns the ingenuous Moralist, whose mind Science has stored, and Piety refined,
The Visionary Boy
Oh! lend that lute, sweet Archimage, to me! Enough of care and heaviness The weary lids of life depress,
When dark November bade the leaves adieu, And the gale sung amid the sea-boy's shrouds, Methought I saw four winged forms, that flew,
Translation Of A Latin Poem
Oh thou, that prattling on thy pebbled way Through my paternal vale dost stray,
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;
To A Friend
Go, then, and join the murmuring city's throng!
Me thou dost leave to solitude and tears;
To busy phantasies, and boding fears,
Lest ill betide thee; but 't will not be long
Ere the hard season shall be past; till then
Live happy; sometimes the forsaken shade
Remembering, and these trees now left to fade;
Nor, mid the busy scenes and hum of men,
Wilt thou my cares forget: in heaviness