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Updated: June 25, 2025
'Wheresoe'er I turn my view, All is strange, yet nothing new; Endless labour all along, Endless labour to be wrong; Phrase that time has flung away; Uncouth words in disarray, Trick'd in antique ruff and bonnet, Ode, and elegy, and sonnet." Piozzi's Anec. p. 64. Thomas Warton in 1777 published a volume of his poems. He, no doubt, is meant. In The Rambler, No. 121.
"I'm on the sea, I'm on the sea, I am where I would ever be; With the blue above, and the blue below, In silence wheresoe'er I go." Silence there certainly was, but instead of the blue above and the blue below, there was pitchy darkness. The long sleep and the perfect rest had taken away all the pain which I had at first felt, except an uncomfortable sensation in one of my ankles.
"But wheresoe'er I stay, In meadow or in copse, Whether at break of day Or when the twilight drops, My heart goes sighing on, Desiring one that's gone. "If sometimes to the skies My weary gaze I lift, His gently shining eyes Look from the cloudy drift, Or stooping o'er the wave I see him in the grave.
No, As heaven's vault still goes with the wanderer, Girds and environs him with boundless grasp, Turn where he will, by sea or land, so goes My anguish with me, wheresoe'er I turn; It hems me round, like an unbounded sea; My ceaseless tears have failed to drain its depths. OLGA. Oh, see! what news can yonder boy have brought, The sisters round him throng so eagerly?
Ah! if you love yourself or me, you must confess that I have reason to condemn this senseless passion; that wheresoe'er it comes destroys all that entertain it; nothing of judgment or discretion can live with it, and it puts everything else out of order before it can find a place for itself. What has it brought my poor Lady Anne Blunt to?
Which, wheresoe'er he be, Are at his heart; and such fidelity It is his darling passion to approve; More brave for this, that he hath much to love. Compare with this the end of the Song at Brougham Castle, where, at the words "alas! The fervent harper did not know " the strain changes from the very spirit of chivalry to the gentleness of Nature's calm.
Oh stars! oh eyes, that see me, wheresoe'er I roam: serene, intent, inscrutable for aye, tell me Sybils, what I am. Wondrous worlds on worlds! Lo, round and round me, shining, awful spells: all glorious, vivid constellations, God's diadem ye are! To you, ye stars, man owes his subtlest raptures, thoughts unspeakable, yet full of faith. But how your mild effulgence stings the boding heart.
'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends Upon that law as on the best of friends; Whence, in a state where men are tempted still To evil for a guard against worse ill, And what in quality or act is best Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, He labours good on good to fix, and owes To virtue every triumph that he knows: Who, if he rise to station of command, Rises by open means; and there will stand On honourable terms, or else retire, And in himself possess his own desire; Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state; Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, Like showers of manna, if they come at all: Whose flowers shed round him in the common strife, Or mild concerns of ordinary life, A constant influence, a peculiar grace; But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for human kind, Is happy as a Lover; and attired With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; Or if an unexpected call succeed, Come when it will, is equal to the need: He who, though thus endued as with a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence, Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes; Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be, Are at his heart; and such fidelity It is his darling passion to approve; More brave for this, that he hath much to love: 'Tis finally, the man who, lifted high, Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, Or left unthought of in obscurity, Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won: Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last, From well to better, daily self-surpassed: Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, And leave a dead unprofitable name Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: This is the happy Warrior; this is He That every Man in arms should wish to be.
The battle continued to rage furiously, and it seemed doubtful which side would win, until Camilla was slain by the Etruscan Aruns, who had been watching for an opportunity to cast a spear at the queen. This way and that his winding course he bends, And wheresoe'er she turns, her steps attends.
Still, wheresoe'er men strike for justice, there Is God, and now beneath his heaven we stand. STAUFFACHER. 'Tis well advised. Let us, then, hold the Diet According to our ancient usages. Though it be night there's sunshine in our cause. MELCHTHAL. Few though our numbers be, the hearts are here Of the whole people; here the best are met.
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