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The keen stars were twinkling, And the fair moon was rising among them, Dear Jane! The guitar was tinkling, But the notes were not sweet till you sung them Again.
IMMITATION OF ENGLISH POETS. WALLER 'Come, gentle Air!' the Aeolian shepherd said, While Procris panted in the secret shade; 'Come, gentle Air!' the fairer Delia cries, While at her feet her swain expiring lies.
My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming; I love not less, though less the show appear; That love is merchandiz'd, whose rich esteeming, The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend; All tongues--the voice of souls--give thee that due, Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
THE CATRINE woods were yellow seen, The flowers decay’d on Catrine lee, Nae lav’rock sang on hillock green, But nature sicken’d on the e’e. Thro’ faded groves Maria sang, Hersel’ in beauty’s bloom the while; And aye the wild-wood ehoes...
When thou shalt be dispos'd to set me light, And place my merit in the eye of scorn, Upon thy side, against myself I'll fight, And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.
THE PROLOGUE. "No more of this, for Godde's dignity!" Quoth oure Hoste; "for thou makest me So weary of thy very lewedness, That, all so wisly God my soule bless, Mine eares ache for thy drafty speech.
O universal Mother, who dost keep From everlasting thy foundations deep, Eldest of things, Great Earth, I sing of thee!
A woman's face with nature's own hand painted, Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion; A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted With shifting change, as is false women's fashion: An eye more bright than theirs, less false in...
In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn, But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing; In act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torn, In vowing new hate after new love bearing: But why of two oaths' breach...
I know I heard the Corn, When I was carried by the Farms -- It had the Tassels on -- I thought how yellow it would look -- When Richard went to mill -- And then, I wanted to get...
OUT of the murk of heaviest clouds, Out of the feudal wrecks, and heap’d-up skeletons of kings, Out of that old entire European debris—the shatter’d mummeries, Ruin’d cathedrals, crumble of palaces, tombs of priests, Lo!
Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell, The picture of Christ crucified, and tell Whether that countenance can thee affright, Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light, Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierced head fell.
This is my play's last scene, here heavens appoint My pilgrimage's last mile; and my race Idly, yet quickly run, hath this last pace, My span's last inch, my minute's latest point, And gluttonous death, will instantly unjoint My body...
thou that roll'st above thy glorious Fire, Round as the shield which grac'd my godlike Sire, Whence are the beams, O Sun! thy endless blaze, Which far eclipse each minor Glory's rays? Forth in thy Beauty here thou deign'st to shine!
To be the father of the fatherless, To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and raise _His_ offspring, who expired in other days To make thy Sire's sway by a kingdom less,-- _This_ is to be a monarch, and repress Envy into unutterable praise.
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy: Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly, Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy?
WHETHER upon the garden seat You lounge with your uplifted feet Under the May's whole Heaven of blue; Or whether on the sofa you, No grown up person being by, Do some soft corner occupy; Take you this volume in...
How swiftly through Heaven's wide expanse Bright day's resplendent colours fade! How sweetly does the moonbeam's glance With silver tint St. Irvyne's glade! No cloud along the spangled air, Is borne upon the evening breeze; How solemn is the scene!
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many, But that thou none lov'st is most evident: For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate, That 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not to conspire, Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate...
Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you, Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery?
'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd, When not to be receives reproach of being; And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem'd Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing: For why should others' false adulterate eyes...
Stern, stern is the voice of fate's fearful command, When accents of horror it breathes in our ear, Or compels us for aye bid adieu to the land, Where exists that loved friend to our bosom so dear, 'Tis sterner...