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

A lake and a fairy boat To sail in the moonlight clear, - And merrily we would float From the dragons that watch us her… Thy gown should be snow-white silk

An Allegory There’s a murmur in the air, And noise in every street— The murmur of many tongues, The noise of numerous feet—

Come, let us set our careful breas… Like Philomel, against the thorn, To aggravate the inward grief, That makes her accents so forlorn; The world has many cruel points,

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!

I had a gig-horse, and I called h… Because on Sundays for a little j… He was so fast and showy, quite a… Although he sometimes kicked and s… I had a chaise, and christened it…

What is a mine—a treasury—a dower— A magic talisman of mighty power? A poet’s wide possession of the ea… He has the enjoyment of a flower’s… Before its budding—ere the first r…

O saw ye not fair Ines? She 's gone into the West, To dazzle when the sun is down, And rob the world of rest: She took our daylight with her,

Lov’st thou not, Alice, with the… To see the hardy Fisher hoist his… And stretch his sail towards the o… Like God’s own beadsman going for… His net into the deep, which doth…

Young Ben he was a nice young man… A carpenter by trade; And he fell in love with Sally Br… That was a lady’s maid. But as they fetch’d a walk one day…

Our hands have met, but not our he… Our hands will never meet again. Friends, if we have ever been, Friends we cannot now remain: I only know I loved you once,

Lady, wouldst thou heiress be To Winters cold and cruel part? When he sets the rivers free, Thou dost still lock up thy heart;… Thou that shouldst outlast the sno…

I gaze upon a city,— A city new and strange,— Down many a watery vista My fancy takes a range; From side to side I saunter,

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,

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,