She was a woman peerless in her st… With household virtues wedded to h… Spotless in linen, grass-bleached… And pure and clear-starched in her… Thence in my Castle of Imaginatio…

’Twas in that mellow season of the… When the hot sun singes the yellow… Till they be gold,—and with a broa… The Moon looks down on Ceres and… When more abundantly the spider we…

—Methought I saw Life swiftly treading over endless… And, at her foot-print, but a bygo… The ocean-past, which, with increa… Swallow’d her steps like a pursuin…

I saw pale Dian, sitting by the b… Of silver falls, the overflow of f… From cloudy steeps; and I grew sa… Endymion’s foot was silent on thos… And he but a hush’d name, that Si…

I will not have the mad Clytie, Whose head is turned by the sun; The tulip is a courtly queen, Whom, therefore, I will shun; The cowslip is a country wench,

’Twas in the prime of summer-time An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school: There were some that ran and some…

(The Argument: Lycus, detained by Circe in her magical dominion, is beloved by a Water Nymph, who, desiring to render him immortal, has recourse to the Sorceress. Circe gives her an inc...

"Coming events cast their shadow b… I had a vision in the summer light… Sorrow was in it, and my inward si… Ached with sad images. The touch… Gushed down my cheeks:—the figured…

Oh! take, young Seraph, take thy… And play to me so cheerily; For grief is dark, and care is sha… And life wears on so wearily. Oh! take thy harp!

And has the earth lost its so spac… The sky its blue circumference abo… That in this little chamber there… Both earth and heaven—my universe… All that my God can give me, or r…

‘O breathe not his name!’ —Moore. Thou Great Unknown! I do not mean Eternity, nor Death… That vast incog!

Spring it is cheery, Winter is dreary, Green leaves hang, but the brown m… When he’s forsaken, Wither’d and shaken,

A WANDERER, Wilson, from my n… Remote, O Rae, from godliness and… Where rolls between us the eternal… Besides some furlongs of a foreign… Beyond the broadest Scotch of Lon…

The dead are in their silent grave… And the dew is cold above, And the living weep and sigh, Over dust that once was love. Once I only wept the dead,

Tim Turpin he was gravel-blind, And ne’er had seen the skies: For Nature, when his head was mad… Forgot to dot his eyes. So, like a Christmas pedagogue,