To Thomas Moore
My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here’s a double health to thee! Here’s a sigh to those who love me, And
Sun of the Sleepless!
Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star! Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far, That show’st the darkness thou canst not dispel, How like art thou to joy remember’d well! So gleams the past, the light
She Walks In Beauty
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light
To Thyrza: And Thou Art Dead
And thou art dead, as young and fair As aught of mortal birth; And form so soft and charm so rare Too soon returned to Earth! Though Earth received them in her bed, And
I Would I Were a Careless Child
I would I were a careless child, Still dwelling in my highland cave, Or roaming through the dusky wild, Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave; The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride Accords not
Saul
Thou whose spell can raise the dead, Bid the prophet’s form appear. ‘Samuel, raise thy buried head! King, behold the phantom seer!’ Earth yawn’d; he stood the centre of a cloud: Light changed its
Lines Written Beneath An Elm In The Churchyard Of Harrow
Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh, Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky; Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, With those I loved, thy soft and verdant
The Vision of Judgment
BY QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF ‘WAT TYLER’ ‘A Daniel come to judgment! yes a Daniel! I thank thee, Jew for teaching me that word.’ PREFACE It
Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte
I ‘Tis done but yesterday a King! And arm’d with Kings to strive And now thou art a nameless thing: So abject yet alive! Is this the man of thousand thrones, Who strew’d our
To Caroline
Think’st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, Suffus’d in tears, implore to stay; And heard unmov’d thy plenteous sighs, Which said far more than words can say? Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,
Love's Last Adieu
The roses of Love glad the garden of life, Though nurtur’d ‘mid weeds dropping pestilent dew, Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife, Or prunes them for ever, in Love’s last adieu! In
Stanzas Written On The Road Between Florence And Pisa
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your
The Isles of Greece
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus Sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But
On Chillon
Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art; For there thy habitation is the heart— The heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters
Epistle To Augusta
My sister! my sweet sister! if a name Dearer and purer were, it should be thine; Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim No tears, but tenderness to answer mine: Go where I