The Widow's Home
Close on the margin of a brawling brook That bathes the low dell’s bosom, stands a Cot; O’ershadow’d by broad Alders. At its door A rude seat, with an ozier canopy Invites the weary
The Confessor, a Sanctified Tale
When SUPERSTITION rul’d the land And Priestcraft shackled Reason, At GODSTOW dwelt a goodly band, Grey monks they were, and but to say They were not always giv’n to pray, Would have been construed
Sonnet XXXII: Blest As the Gods
Blest as the Gods! Sicilian Maid is he, The youth whose soul thy yielding graces charm; Who bound, O! thraldom sweet! by beauty’s arm, In idle dalliance fondly sports with thee! Blest as the
Sonnet XXXVI: Lead Me, Sicilian Maids
Lead me, Sicilian Maids, to haunted bow’rs, While yon pale moon displays her faintest beams O’er blasted woodlands, and enchanted streams, Whose banks infect the breeze with pois’nous flow’rs. Ah! lead me, where the
Ode to Envy
Deep in th’ abyss where frantic horror bides, In thickest mists of vapours fell, Where wily Serpents hissing glare And the dark Demon of Revenge resides, At midnight’s murky hour Thy origin began: Rapacious
Sonnet XXIV: O Thou! Meek Orb
O thou! meek Orb! that stealing o’er the dale Cheer’st with thy modest beams the noon of night! On the smooth lake diffusing silv’ry light, Sublimely still, and beautifully pale! What can thy cool
Life
“What is this world?thy school, O misery! “Our only lesson is to learn to suffer.” – YOUNG. LOVE, thou sportive fickle boy, Source of anguish, child of joy, Ever woundingever smiling, Soothing still, and
Sonnet to Evening
[Written under a tree in the woods of St. Amand, in Flanders.] SWEET BALMY HOUR! dear to the pensive mind, Oft have I watch’d thy dark and weeping shade, Oft have I hail’d thee
The Bee and the Butterfly
UPON a garden’s perfum’d bed With various gaudy colours spread, Beneath the shelter of a ROSE A BUTTERFLY had sought repose; Faint, with the sultry beams of day, Supine the beauteous insect lay. A
The Shepherd's Dog
I. A Shepherd’s Dog there was; and he Was faithful to his master’s will, For well he lov’d his company, Along the plain or up the hill; All Seasons were, to him, the same
Sonnet XXV: Can'st Thou Forget
Can’st thou forget, O! Idol of my Soul! Thy Sappho’s voice, her form, her dulcet Lyre! That melting ev’ry thought to fond desire, Bade sweet delerium o’er thy senses roll? Can’st thou, so soon,
Lines Written by the Side of a River
FLOW soft RIVER, gently stray, Still a silent waving tide O’er thy glitt’ring carpet glide, While I chaunt my ROUNDELAY, As I gather from thy bank, Shelter’d by the poplar dank, King-cups, deck’d in
Ainsi Va le Monde
[As a Tribute of Esteem and Admiration this Poem is inscribed to ROBERT MERRY, Esq. A. M. Member of the Royal Academy at Florence, and Author of the Laurel of Liberty, and the Della
Sonnet to the Memory of Miss Maria Linley
So bends beneath the storm yon balmy flow’r, Whose spicy blossoms once perfum’d the gale; So press’d with tears reclines yon lily pale, Obedient to the rude and beating show’r. Still is the LARK,
Stanzas to Time
CAPRICIOUS foe to human joy, Still varying with the fleeting day; With thee the purest raptures cloy, The fairest prospects fade away; Nor worth, nor pow’r thy wings can bind, All earthly pleasures fly
Sonnet XIX: Farewell, Ye Coral Caves
Farewell, ye coral caves, ye pearly sands, Ye waving woods that crown yon lofty steep; Farewell, ye Nereides of the glitt’ring deep, Ye mountain tribes, ye fawns, ye sylvan bands: On the bleak rock
To the Muse of Poetry
EXULT MY MUSE! exult to see Each envious, waspish, jealous thing, Around its harmless venom fling, And dart its powerless fangs at THEE! Ne’er shalt THOU bend thy radiant wing, To sweep the dark
Sonnet XV: Now, Round My Favour'd Grot
Now, round my favor’d grot let roses rise, To strew the bank where Phaon wakes from rest; O! happy buds! to kiss his burning breast, And die, beneath the lustre of his eyes! Now,
Sonnet XVI: Delusive Hope
Delusive Hope! more transient than the ray That leads pale twilight to her dusky bed, O’er woodland glen, or breezy mountain’s head, Ling’ring to catch the parting sigh of day. Hence with thy visionary
Stanzas Written under an Oak in Windsor Forest
“HERE POPE FIRST SUNG!” O, hallow’d Tree! Such is the boast thy bark displays; Thy branches, like thy Patron’s lays, Shall ever, ever, sacred be; Nor with’ring storm, nor woodman’s stroke, Shall harm the
To Cesario
CESARIO, thy Lyre’s dulcet measure, So sweetly, so tenderly flows; That could my sad soul taste of pleasure, Thy music would soften its woes. But ah, gentle soother, where anguish Takes root in the
Sonnet XXXV: What Means the Mist
What means the mist opaque that veils these eyes; Why does yon threat’ning tempest shroud the day? Why does thy altar, Venus, fade away, And on my breast the dews of horror rise? Phaon
Oberon to the Queen of the Fairies
My OBERON, with ev’ry sprite “That gilds the vapours of the night, “Shall dance and weave the verdant ring “With joy that mortals thus can sing; “And when thou sigh’st MARIA’S name, “And mourn’st
Canzonet
SLOW the limpid currents twining, Brawl along the lonely dell, ‘Till in one wild stream combining, Nought its rapid course can quell; So at first LOVE’S poisons stealing, Round the heart unheeded play, While
Sonnet VII: Come, Reason
Come, Reason, come! each nerve rebellious bind, Lull the fierce tempest of my fev’rish soul; Come, with the magic of thy meek controul, And check the wayward wand’rings of my mind: Estrang’d from thee,
Sonnet to Amicus
WHOE’ER thou art, whose soul-enchanting song Steals on the sullen ear of pensive woe; To whom the sounds of melody belong, Sounds, that can more than human bliss bestow; Like the wak’d God of
Edmund's Wedding
By the side of the brook, where the willow is waving Why sits the wan Youth, in his wedding-suit gay! Now sighing so deeply, now frantickly raving Beneath the pale light of the moon’s
To Rinaldo
SOFT is the balmy breath of May, When from the op’ning lids of day Meek twilight steals; and from its wings Translucent pearls of ether flings. MILD is the chaste Moon’s languid eye, When
Sonnet XXIX: Farewell, Ye Tow'ring Cedars
Farewell, ye tow’ring Cedars, in whose shade, Lull’d by the Nightingale, I sunk to rest, While spicy breezes hover’d o’er my breast To fan my cheek, in deep’ning tints array’d; While am’rous insects, humming