Since all, that beat about in Nature’s range, Or veer or vanish ; why should’st thou remain The only constant in a world of change, O yearning THOUGHT! that liv’st but in the brain?
Scene A spacious drawing-room, with music-room adjoining. Katharine. What are the words? Eliza. Ask our friend, the Improvisatore ; here he comes. Kate has a favour To ask of you, Sir ; it is
In Kцhln, a town of monks and bones, And pavements fang’d with murderous stones And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches ; I counted two and seventy stenches, All well defined, and several stinks!
Where true Love burns Desire is Love’s pure flame; It is the reflex of our earthly frame, That takes its meaning from the nobler part, And but translates the language of the heart.
[exerpt] Of late, in one of those most weary hours, When life seems emptied of all genial powers, A dready mood, which he who ne’er has known May bless his happy lot, I sate
Notus in fratres animi paterni. Hor. Carm. lib. II.2. A blessйd lot hath he, who having passed His youth and early manhood in the stir And turmoil of the world, retreats at length, With
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O’Kellyn? Where may the grave of that good man be? By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, Under the twigs of a young
Ere the birth of my life, if I wished it or no No question was asked me it could not be so! If the life was the question, a thing sent to try And
The sole true Something This! In Limbo Den It frightens Ghosts as Ghosts here frighten men For skimming in the wake it mock’d the care Of the old Boat-God for his Farthing Fare ;
Low was our pretty Cot : our tallest Rose Peep’d at the chamber-window. We could hear At silent noon, and eve, and early morn, The Sea’s faint murmur. In the open air Our Myrtles
PART I ‘Tis the middle of night by the castle clock And the owls have awakened the crowing cock; Tu-whit!- Tu-whoo! And hark, again! the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew. Sir Leoline, the
I know ’tis but a Dream, yet feel more anguish Than if ’twere Truth. It has been often so: Must I die under it? Is no one near? Will no one hear these stifled
The Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet’s cry Came loud, – and hark, again! loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to
My pensive SARA! thy soft cheek reclined Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o’ergrown With white-flower’d Jasmin, and the broad-leav’d Myrtle, (Meet emblems they
I THERE is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind, Omnific. His most holy name is Love. Truth of subliming import! with the which Who feeds and saturates his constant soul, He from his small particular
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