#EnglishWriters #Romantic
Bob Southey! You’re a poet—Poet-… And representative of all the race… Although 'tis true that you turn’d… Last—yours has lately been a commo… And now, my Epic Renegade! what a…
In one dread night our city saw, a… Bow’d to the dust, the Drama’s to… In one short hour beheld the blazi… Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease… Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired…
The roses of Love glad the garden… Though nurtur’d 'mid weeds droppin… Till Time crops the leaves with u… Or prunes them for ever, in Love’… In vain, with endearments, we soot…
When Friendship or Love Our sympathies move; When Truth, in a glance, should a… The lips may beguile, With a dimple or smile,
Thy cheek is pale with thought, bu… And yet so lovely, that if Mirth… Its rose of whiteness with the bri… My heart would wish away that rude… And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes—…
Through thy battlements, Newstead… Thou, the hall of my Fathers, art… In thy once smiling garden, the he… Have choak’d up the rose, which la… Of the mail-cover’d Barons, who,…
When some proud son of man returns… Unknown to glory, but upheld by bi… The sculptor’s art exhausts the po… And storied urns record who rest b… When all is done, upon the tomb is…
If from great nature’s or our own… Of thought we could but snatch a c… Perhaps mankind might find the pat… But then 'twould spoil much good p… One system eats another up, and th…
If, for silver or for gold, You could melt ten thousand pimple… Into half a dozen dimples, Then your face we might behold, Looking, doubtless, much more snug…
Hail, Muse! et cetera.—We left J… Pillow’d upon a fair and happy bre… And watch’d by eyes that never yet… And loved by a young heart, too de… To feel the poison through her spi…
JOHN ADAMS lies here, of the p… A Carrier who carried his can to… He carried so much, and he carried… He could carry no more‑so was carr… For, the liquor he drank, being to…
THE isles of Greece! the isles o… Where burning Sappho loved and su… Where grew the arts of war and pea… Where Delos rose, and Phoebus spr… Eternal summer gilds them yet,
When, to their airy hall, my fathe… Shall call my spirit, joyful in th… When, poised upon the gale, my for… Or, dark in mist, descend the moun… Oh! may my shade behold no sculptu…
Ah!—What should follow slips from… Whatever follows ne’ertheless may… As à -propos of hope or retrospect… As though the lurking thought had… All present life is but an interje…
Belshazzar! from the banquet turn, Nor in thy sensual fulness fall; Behold! while yet before thee burn The graven words, the glowing wall… Many a despot men miscall