SONGS are like painted window-panes! In darkness wrapp’d the church remains, If from the market-place we view it; Thus sees the ignoramus through it. No wonder that he deems it tame, And all his
OH, my Theresa dear! Thine eyes, I greatly fear, Can through the bandage see! Although thine eyes are bound, By thee I’m quickly found, And wherefore shouldst thou catch but me? Ere long thou
AFTER ANACREON. [The strong resemblance of this fine poem to Cowley’s Ode bearing the same name, and beginning “Happy insect! What can be,” will be at once seen.] HAPPY art thou, darling insect, Who,
AMOR, not the child, the youthful lover of Psyche, Look’d round Olympus one day, boldly, to triumph inured; There he espied a goddess, the fairest amongst the immortals, Venus Urania she, straight was his
THE stork who worms and frogs devours That in our ponds reside, Why should he dwell on high church-towers, With which he’s not allied? Incessantly he chatters there, And gives our ears no rest;
SISTER of the first-born light, Type of sorrowing gentleness! Quivering mists in silv’ry dress Float around thy features bright; When thy gentle foot is heard, From the day-closed caverns then Wake the mournful ghosts
Lovingly I’ll sing of love; Ever comes she from above. THE FRIENDLY MEETING. IN spreading mantle to my chin conceald, I trod the rocky path, so steep and grey, Then to the wintry plain
WITH eagerness he drinks the treach’rous potion, Nor stops to rest, by the first taste misled; Sweet is the draught, but soon all power of motion He finds has from his tender members fled;
OH ye kindly nymphs, who dwell ‘mongst the rocks and the thickets, Grant unto each whatsoe’er he may in silence desire! Comfort impart to the mourner, and give to the doubter instruction, And let
ON yonder lofty mountain A thousand times I stand, And on my staff reclining, Look down on the smiling land. My grazing flocks then I follow, My dog protecting them well; I find myself
WAKEN not Amor from sleep! The beauteous urchin still slumbers; Go, and complete thou the task, that to the day is assign’d! Thus doth the prudent mother with care turn time to her profit,
No one talks more than a Poet; Fain he’d have the people know it. Praise or blame he ever loves; None in prose confess an error, Yet we do so, void of terror, In
[Another of the love-songs addressed to Frederica.] QUICK throbb’d my heart: to norse! haste, haste, And lo! ’twas done with speed of light; The evening soon the world embraced, And o’er the mountains hung
WITH many a thousand kiss not yet content, At length with One kiss I was forced to go; After that bitter parting’s depth of woe, I deem’d the shore from which my steps I
Go! obedient to my call, Turn to profit thy young days, Wiser make betimes thy breast In Fate’s balance as it sways, Seldom is the cock at rest; Thou must either mount, or fall,
Page 7 of 19« First«...56789...»Last »