Bend down and read-the birth, the… Born in the year that Waterloo wa… And died in this, whose days are n… But which, because a year conceive… No noble need will christen or wil…

Since we the march of Time can no… Keep you in step with him till Ti… Thus will you journey with more ea… Nor mar the rhythm that you cannot… Nor ever yearn impatiently to reap

Welcome, right welcome home, to th… Where, unforgotten, loved Victori… But now with happy pride your Fat… Your Mother weeps. You went as came the swallow, home…

Farewell! I breathe that wonted p… But oh! though countless leagues d… Our gaze, our grasp, they shall no… My soul, my spirit, from thy side. Waking or sleeping, thou shalt own

Beside the Convent Gate I stood, Lingering to take farewell of thos… To whom I owed the simple good Of three days’ peace, three nights… My sumpter-mule did blink and blin…

Gentle in fibre, but of steadfast… Still to do right though right won… And fallen on evil tongues and evi… When men from plain straight duty… And, born to nobly sway, ignobly s…

HE. Halt here awhile. That mossy-cush… Is for your queenliness a natural… As I am fitly couched on this low… Here at your feet.

The lark confinèd in his cage, And captive in his wing, Though fluttering with imprisoned… Forbeareth not to sing. But still the strain, though loud…

Tell me your race, your name, O Lady limned as dead, yet as whe… That within this faded frame An unfading beauty wear. Were you ever known to fame,

When Athens challenged Phryne to… Eleusis’ self sufficed not to appa… Her impious tread, and, throned wi… The awful judges frowned on her di… Slowly her lovely limbs she did un…

With shimmer of steel and blare of… And Switzers marching with martia… And cavaliers trampling brown the… Came bow-legged Charles through t… With black Il Moro for traitor gu…

By the fates that have fastened ou… By the distance that holds us apar… By our passion, its sweetness, its… By the longing and ache of the hea… By our meeting, our parting, our p…

Blithe friend! blithe throstle! I… Whom I at last again hear sing, Perched on thy old accustomed boug… Poet-prophet of the Spring? Yes! Singing as thou oft hast sun…

All the seasons of the year, I have flowers for you, dear. When the ploughland’s flecked with… And the blue-eyed scyllas blow, Gazing, through the wintry gale,

The lights of Mesolongi gleam Before me, now the day is gone; And vague as leaf on drifting stre… My keel glides on. No mellow moon, no stars arise;