How erring oft the judgment in its hate Or fond desire! Those slow-descending showers, Those hovering fogs, that bathe our growing vales In deep November (loathed by trifling Gaul, Effeminate), are gifts the Pleiads shed, Britannia's handmaids. As the beverage falls, Her hills rejoice, her valleys laugh and sing. Hail noble Albion! where no golden mines, No soft perfumes, nor oils, nor myrtle bowers, The vigorous frame and lofty heart of man Enervate: round whose stern cerulean brows White-winged snow, and cloud, and pearly rain, Frequent attend, with solemn majesty: Rich queen of mists and vapors! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...REPORT ON EXPERIENCE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN NATURE'S QUESTIONING by THOMAS HARDY JEWISH HYMN IN BABYLON by HENRY HART MILMAN AT A SOLEMN MUSIC by JOHN MILTON SACRIFICE by GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL THE GALLOWS by PHILIP EDWARD THOMAS GHOST-BEREFT; A SCENE FROM BOGLAND IN WAR-TIME by JANE BARLOW GREENES FUNERALLS: SONNET 10. A CATALOGUE OF CERTAINE OF HIS BOOKES by RICHARD BARNFIELD |