#English #Romanticism #XIXCentury
God prosper, speed, and save, God raise from England’s grave Her murdered Queen! Pave with swift victory The steps of Liberty,
'Tis the terror of tempest. The r… Are flickering in ribbons within t… From the stark night of vapours th… And when lightning is loosed, like… She sees the black trunks of the w…
Now the last day of many days, All beautiful and bright as thou, The loveliest and the last, is dea… Rise, Memory, and write its prais… Up,—to thy wonted work! come, trac…
From the Greek of Plato. Kissing Helena, together With my kiss, my soul beside it Came to my lips, and there I kept… For the poor thing had wandered th…
49 Go thou to Rome,—at once the Para… The grave, the city, and the wilde… And where its wrecks like shattere… And flowering weeds, and fragrant…
Rough wind, that moanest loud Grief too sad for song; Wild wind, when sullen cloud Knells all the night long; Sad storm whose tears are vain,
To thirst and find no fill—to wail… With short unsteady steps—to pause… To feel the blood run through the… Where busy thought and blind sensa… To nurse the image of unfelt cares…
The cold earth slept below; Above the cold sky shone; And all around, With a chilling sound, From caves of ice and fields of sn…
Once, early in the morning, Beelz… With care his sweet person adornin… He put on his Sunday clothes. II. He drew on a boot to hide his hoof…
One sung of thee who left the tale… Like the false dawns which perish… Like empty cups of wrought and dae… Which mock the lips with air, when…
Thus to be lost and thus to sink a… Perchance were death indeed!'Co… In thy dark eyes a power like ligh… Even though the sounds which were… Between thy lips, are laid to slee…
The death-bell beats!— The mountain repeats The echoing sound of the knell; And the dark Monk now Wraps the cowl round his brow,
'Thus do the generations of the ea… Go to the grave and issue from the… Surviving still the imperishable c… That renovates the world; even as… Which the keen frost-wind of the w…
The spider spreads her webs, wheth… In poet’s tower, cellar, or barn,… The silk-worm in the dark green mu… His winding sheet and cradle ever… So I, a thing whom moralists call…
PEOPLE of England, ye who toil… Who reap the harvests which are no… Who weave the clothes which your o… And for your own take the inclemen… Who build warm houses . . .
