#EnglishWriters #Romantic
Ambition was my idol, which was br… Before the shrines of Sorrow and… And the two last have left me many… O’er which reflection may be made… Now, like Friar Bacon’s brazen he…
From the last hill that looks on t… I beheld thee, Oh Sion! when rend… 'Twas thy last sun went down, and… Flash’d back on the last glance I… II.
Thine eyes’ blue tenderness, thy l… And the wan lustre of thy features… From contemplation-where serenely… Seems Sorrow’s softness charm’d f… Have thrown such speaking sadness…
‘It is the voice of years that are… they roll before me with all their… Newstead! fast-falling, once-respl… Religion’s shrine! repentant HE… Of warriors, monks, and dames the…
’TIS done—but yesterday a King! And arm’d with Kings to strive— And now thou art a nameless thing: So abject—yet alive! Is this the man of thousand throne…
‘But if any old lady, knight, prie… Should condemn me for printing a s… If good Madam Squintum my work sh… May I venture to give her a smack… CANDOUR compels me, BECHER!…
Her eye (I’m very fond of handsom… Was large and dark, suppressing ha… Until she spoke, then through its… Flash’d an expression more of prid… And love than either; and there wo…
‘What say I?’—not a syllable furt… I’m your man ‘of all measures,’ de… Here goes, for a swim on the strea… On those buoyant supporters, the b… If our weight breaks them down, an…
The King was on his throne, The Satraps throng’d the hall: A thousand bright lamps shone O’er that high festival. A thousand cups of gold,
We do not curse thee, Waterloo! Though Freedom’s blood thy plain… There 'twas shed, but is not sunk Rising from each gory trunk, Like the water-spout from ocean,
Oh, Castlereagh! thou art a patri… Cato died for his country, so dids… He perish’d rather than see Rome… Thou cutt’ st thy throat that Bri… So Castlereagh has cut his throat…
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,
In this beloved marble view, Above the works and thoughts of ma… What Nature could, but would not,… And Beauty and Canova can! Beyond imagination’s power,
It is the hour when from the bough… The nightingale’s high note is hea… It is the hour—when lover’s vows Seem sweet in every whisper’d word… And gentle winds and waters near,
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...