Dorset! whose early steps with min… Exploring every path of Ida’s gla… Whom still affection taught me to… And made me less a tyrant than a f… Though the harsh custom of our you…

I want a hero: an uncommon want, When every year and month sends fo… Till, after cloying the gazettes w… The age discovers he is not the tr… Of such as these I should not car…

There be none of Beauty’s daughte… With a magic like Thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing

'I had rather be a kitten, and cry… Than one of these same metre balla… ‘Such shameless bards we have; and… There are as mad, abandon’d critic… Still must I hear?—shall hoarse F…

Who killed John Keats? “I,” says the Quarterly, So savage and Tartarly; “Twas one of my feats.” Who shot the arrow?

When coldness wraps this suffering… Ah! whither strays the immortal mi… It cannot die, it cannot stay, But leaves its darken’d dust behin… Then, unembodied, doth it trace

Here once engaged the stranger’s v… Young Friendship’s record simply… Few were her words; but yet, thoug… Resentment’s hand the line defaced… Deeply she cut—but not erased,

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; Where the light wings of...

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—…

The morning watch was come; the ve… Her course, and gently made her li… The cloven billow flashed from off… In furrows formed by that majestic… The waters with their world were a…