Cupid Sleeping
[Inscribed to Her Grace the Duchess of Devonshire.] CLOSE in a woodbine’s tangled shade, The BLOOMING GOD asleep was laid; His brows with mossy roses crown’d; His golden darts lay scatter’d round; To shade
Sonnet VIII: Why, Through Each Aching Vein
Why, through each aching vein, with lazy pace Thus steals the languid fountain of my heart, While, from its source, each wild convulsive start Tears the scorch’d roses from my burning face? In vain,
Rinaldo to Laura Maria
THOU! whose sublime poetic art Can pierce the pulses of the heart, Can force the treasur’d tear to flow In prodigality of woe; Or lure each jocund bliss to birth Amid the sportive bow’rs
Elegy to the Memory of David Garrick, Esq
DEAR SHADE OF HIM, who grac’d the mimick scene, And charm’d attention with resistless pow’r; Whose wond’rous art, whose fascinating mien, Gave glowing rapture to the short-liv’d hour! Accept the mournful verse, the ling’ring
Elegy to the Memory of Richard Boyle, Esq
NEAR yon bleak mountain’s dizzy height, That hangs o’er AVON’s silent wave; By the pale Crescent’s glimm’ring light, I sought LORENZO’s lonely grave. O’er the long grass the silv’ry dew, Soft Twilight’s tears spontaneous
Sonnet X: Dang'rous to Hear
Dang’rous to hear, is that melodious tongue, And fatal to the sense those murd’rous eyes, Where in a sapphire sheath, Love’s arrow lies, Himself conceal’d the crystal haunts among! Oft o’er that form, enamour’d
Sonnet XX: Oh! I Could Toil For Thee
Oh! I could toil for thee o’er burning plains; Could smile at poverty’s disastrous blow; With thee, could wander ‘midst a world of snow, Where one long night o’er frozen Scythia reigns. Sever’d from
Stanzas to Love
TELL ME, LOVE, when I rove o’er some far distant plain, Shall I cherish the passion that dwells in my breast? Or will ABSENCE subdue the keen rigours of pain, And the swift wing
Sonnet XLIV: Here Droops the Muse
Here droops the muse! while from her glowing mind, Celestial Sympathy, with humid eye, Bids the light Sylph capricious Fancy fly, Time’s restless wings with transient flowr’s to bind! For now, with folded arms
Sonnet III: Turn to Yon Vale Beneath
Turn to yon vale beneath, whose tangled shade Excludes the blazing torch of noon-day light, Where sportive Fawns, and dimpled Loves invite, The bow’r of Pleasure opens to the glade: Lull’d by soft flutes,
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