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It is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard; It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whispered word; And gentle winds, and waters near, Make music to the lonely ear.
whose early steps with mine have stray'd, Exploring every path of Ida's glade; Whom, still, affection taught me to defend, And made me less a tyrant than a friend, Though the harsh custom of our youthful band Bade _thee_ obey,...
OF THE NATURE AND STATE OF MAN WITH RESPECT TO THE UNIVERSE. AWAKE, my St John! leave all meaner things To low ambition, and the pride of kings.
"Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met--or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted."-- Burns . CANTO THE FIRST. Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime?
"Honest--honest Iago! If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee." Shakespeare.
The Lord, we look to once for all, Is the Lord we should look at, all at once: He knows not to vary, saith Saint Paul, Nor the shadow of turning, for the nonce. See him no other than as he is!
In one dread night our city saw, and sighed, Bowed to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride; In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, Apollo sink, and Shakespeare cease to reign. Ye who beheld, (oh!
OCTOBER, 1818.
'Tis the terror of tempest.
My first thought was, he lied in every word, That hoary cripple, with malicious eye Askance to watch the working of his lie On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored Its...
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." [_Hamlet,_ Act i. Scene 5, Lines 166, 167. _The Scene of the Drama is amongst the Higher Alps--partly in the Castle of Manfred, and...
Can it be the sun descending O'er the level plain of water? Or the Red Swan floating, flying, Wounded by the magic arrow, Staining all the waves with crimson, With the crimson of its life-blood, Filling all the air with...
The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crisped and sere-- The leaves they were withering and sere; It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year; It was hard by the dim lake...
Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill; Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes! No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed, Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats, Nor the cropped herbage shoot another head.
1 TO think of time—of all that retrospection! To think of to-day, and the ages continued henceforward! Have you guess’d you yourself would not continue? Have you dreaded these earth-beetles? Have you fear’d the future would be nothing to you?
In a huge cloud of mountain hue The sun sets dark nor shudders through One single beam to shine again Tis night already in the lane The settled clouds in ridges lie And some swell mountains calm and high Clouds...
Who would not laugh, if Lawrence hired to grace His costly canvas with each flattered face, Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush, Saw cits grow Centaurs underneath his brush? Or, should some limner join, for show or sale,...
TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF HOMER. Sing, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove, The Herald-child, king of Arcadia And all its pastoral hills, whom in sweet love Having been interwoven, modest May Bore Heaven's dread Supreme.
THE FIRST PASTORAL, OR DAMON. TO SIR WILLIAM TRUMBULL.
Full many a dreary hour have I past, My brain bewildered, and my mind o'ercast With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze...
WHILOM, as olde stories tellen us, There was a duke that highte Theseus. Of Athens he was lord and governor, And in his time such a conqueror That greater was there none under the sun. Full many a riche country had he won.
The minister and norice unto vices, Which that men call in English idleness, The porter at the gate is of delices; T'eschew, and by her contrar' her oppress, -- That is to say, by lawful business, -- Well oughte we...
My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears: My limbs are bowed, though not with toil, But rusted with a vile repose, For they have...
Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet! I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll. Yes, yes, we know that we can jest, We know, we know that we can smile!