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From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome, I beheld thee, oh Sion! when rendered to Rome: 'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall Flashed back on the last glance I gave to thy wall.
I love thee, Baby!
I cannot spare water or wine, Tobacco-leaf, or poppy, or rose; From the earth-poles to the Line, All between that works or grows, Every thing is kin of mine.
Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest Now is the time that face should form another; Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. For where is she so...
Yet, my pretty sportive friend, Little is't to such an end That I praise thy rareness! Other dogs may be thy peers Haply in these drooping ears, And this glossy fairness.
Little trotty wagtail he went in the rain, And tittering, tottering sideways he neer got straight again, He stooped to get a worm, and looked...
SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, See aged Winter, ’mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow.
Shall we roam, my love, To the twilight grove, When the moon is rising bright; Oh, I'll whisper there, In the cool night-air, What I dare not in broad daylight!
GANE is the day, and mirk’s the night, But we’ll ne’er stray for faut o’ light; Gude ale and bratdy’s stars and moon, And blue-red wine’s the risin’ sun. Chorus.—Then gudewife, count the lawin, The lawin, the lawin, Then gudewife,...
In the valley of waters we wept on the day When the host of the Stranger made Salem his prey; And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay, And our hearts were so full of the land far away!
Above the russet clods the corn is seen Sprouting its spiry points of tender green, Where squats the hare, to terrors wide awake, Like some brown clod the harrows failed to break.
Sons of the Greeks, arise! The glorious hour's gone forth, And, worthy of such ties, Display who gave us birth. Sons of Greeks! let us go In arms against the foe, Till their hated blood shall flow In a river past our feet.
The Child's faith is new -- Whole -- like His Principle -- Wide -- like the Sunrise On fresh Eyes -- Never had a Doubt...
AFAR 1 the illustrious Exile roams, Whom kingdoms on this day should hail; An inmate in the casual shed, On transient pity’s bounty fed, Haunted by busy memory’s bitter tale!
The eternal gates terrific porter lifted the northern bar: Thel enter'd in & saw the secrets of the land unknown; She saw the couches of the dead, & where the fibrous roots Of every heart on earth infixes deep its...
Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer? Father of Light, on thee I call!
Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav'ns joy, Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Vers, Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ Dead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce, And to our high-rais'd phantasie present, That undisturbed Song of...
IF God compel thee to this destiny, To die alone, with none beside thy bed To ruffle round with sobs thy last word said And mark with tears the pulses ebb from thee,-- Pray then alone, ' O Christ, come tenderly !
sweet is the moonbeam that sleeps on yon fountain, And sweet the mild rush of the soft-sighing breeze, And sweet is the glimpse of yon dimly-seen mountain, 'Neath the verdant arcades of yon shadowy trees.
yes, I will own we were dear to each other; The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true; The love which you felt was the love of a brother, Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you.
'His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani Munere!' VIRG. Dorset, the grace of courts, the Muses' pride, Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died.
My faint spirit was sitting in the light Of thy looks, my love; It panted for thee like the hind at noon For the brooks, my love.
FAREWELL, old Scotia’s bleak domains, Far dearer than the torrid plains, Where rich ananas blow! Farewell, a mother’s blessing dear! A borther’s sigh! a sister’s tear! My Jean’s heart-rending throe! Farewell, my Bess! tho’ thou’rt bereft Of my paternal care.
Now the storm begins to lower, (Haste, the loom of Hell prepares!) Iron-sleet of arrowy shower Hurtles in the darkened air. Glittering lances are the loom, Where the dusky warp we strain, Weaving many a soldier's doom, Orkney's woe and Randver's bane.