#EnglishWriters #VictorianWriters #XIXCentury #1878 #ABookOfMiscellaneousLyrics
AH me! my heart is like to break, The envied rose upon my cheek, The blood red rose is cold and ble… Now Robin slighteth me. Alas! a shadow lone and pale
THE sun is in the western sky And thro’ the barley, she— Comes she, the apple of my eye, The rose-cheeked Rosa Rea. Away I slink the maid to meet,
‘BEWARE! yon bird now in glee o… May drop into a snare:’ So sung we when a day of the past… away But not when Alf, was near.
Misfortune is a darling, ever Most faithful to the minstrel race… Let low-bred wretches shun them, n… Yet acted she a part so base. True, oft by her the bard discover…
SHE took the wood thro’ which she… But in the lake near which she wen… An image met, and swayed and swung… And three times with her image ble… The vision from that mirror fled,
I MIGHT have wish’s it otherwis… But yet, poor heart, tho’ they wer… Those thunder-clouds above her eye… They very much became the jewel! Hope fled, but Truth remains, and…
THRICE ‘Iö Pæan!’ let me cry, And bless the hour that I was bor… And born thro’ love in vain to sig… To cheer my longing heart a morn Has risen in my ebon sky,
LITTLE ANNA young and fair, How with heart a-dancing, I descry her image rare, O’er the footway glancing. Ah, those locks of dusky hue,
A LITTLE brooklet trilled a son… As merry as the day was long, At which a music-hater stung To frenzy said: 'I’ll bind thy to… And quell thy merriment:' That…
I READ in an old book the myth Of the Hellenian damsel with The magic needle, when there fell On me a power—a mystic spell— I could not well to others tell.
WHY thus mourn o’er star-hopes fa… They are only from thy ken, By a passing vapour shaded, And will soon appear again: Would thou prove a moral warrior,
How long shall injustice prevail? How long shall the weak rue the st… The children of Poland bewail The yoke of the Russian?—How long… Lo! one generation goes by,
DON’T spur us so: you’ll ever fi… When you will ride at giddy paces There’s always something in the wi… At which ere long you’ll twist you… What, we’re but steeds whom no one…
WHAT can he ail? I hear them ask And what can make his cheek so pal… Ah, that to answer were a task For which no effort could avail, To say I love were but to say
MERRY, lark-like, merry, At the break of day, Polly meeteth Harry Coming down the way; And her lips, they quiver,