#English #Romanticism #XIXCentury
Sun of the sleepless! melancholy s… Whose tearful beam glows tremulous… That show’st the darkness thou can… How like art thou to joy remember’… So gleams the past, the light of o…
Oh! did those eyes, instead of fir… With bright, but mild affection sh… Though they might kindle less desi… Love, more than mortal, would be t… For thou art form’d so heavenly fa…
I now mean to be serious;—it is ti… Since laughter now-a-days is deem’… A jest at Vice by Virtue’s call’d… And critically held as deleterious… Besides, the sad’s a source of the…
When I roved a young Highlander o… And climb’d thy steep sumrnit, oh… To gaze on the torrent that thunde… Or the mist of the tempest that ga… Untutor’d by science, a stranger t…
With death doom’d to grapple, Beneath this cold slab, he Who lied in the Chapel Now lies in the Abbey.
Marion! why that pensive brow? What disgust to life hast thou? Change that discontented air; Frowns become not one so fair. 'Tis not love disturbs thy rest,
The Assyrian came down like the w… And his cohorts were gleaming in p… And the sheen of their spears was… When the blue wave rolls nightly o… Like the leaves of the forest when…
Were my bosom as false as thou dee… I need not have wander’d from far… It was but abjuring my creed to ef… The curse which, thou say’st, is t… If the bad never triumph, then Go…
Huzza! Hodgson, we are going, Our embargo’s off at last; Favourable breezes blowing Bend the canvass o’er the mast. From aloft the signal’s streaming,
When the moon is on the wave, And the glow-worm in the grass, And the meteor on the grave, And the wisp on the morass; When the falling stars are shootin…
The chain I gave was fair to view… The lute I added sweet in sound; The heart that offer’d both was tr… And ill deserved the fate it found… These gifts were charm’d by secret…
To the tune of ‘Why, how now, sau… Why, how now, saucy Tom? If you thus must ramble, I will publish some Remarks on Mister Campbell.
A PARAPHRASE FROM THE… Nisus, the guardian of the portal… Eager to gild his arms with hostil… Well skill’d in fight the quiverin… Or pour his arrow, through th’ emb…
Who killed John Keats? “I,” says the Quarterly, So savage and Tartarly; “Twas one of my feats.” Who shot the arrow?
Eliza, what fools are the Mussulm… Who to woman deny the soul’s futur… Could they see thee, Eliza, they’… And this doctrine would meet with… Had their prophet possess’d half a…
