#EnglishWriters #Romantic
Were my bosom as false as thou dee… I need not have wander’d from far… It was but abjuring my creed to ef… The curse which, thou say’st, is t… If the bad never triumph, then Go…
When Time, or soon or late, shall… The dreamless sleep that lulls the… Oblivion! may thy languid wing Wave gently o’er my dying bed! No band of friends or heirs be the…
Though the day of my destiny’s ove… And the star of my fate hath decli… Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could fin… Though thy soul with my grief was…
Here once engaged the stranger’s v… Young Friendship’s record simply… Few were her words; but yet, thoug… Resentment’s hand the line defaced… Deeply she cut—but not erased,
O Love! O Glory! what are ye who… Around us ever, rarely to alight? There’s not a meteor in the polar… Of such transcendent and more flee… Chill, and chain’d to cold earth,…
White as a white sail on a dusky s… When half the horizon 's clouded a… Fluttering between the dun wave an… Is Hope’s last gleam in Man’s ext… Her anchor parts; but still her sn…
Saint Peter sat by the celestial… His keys were rusty, and the lock… So little trouble had been given o… Not that the place by any means wa… But since the Gallic era 'eight-e…
For Oxford and for Waldegrave You give much more than me you gav… Which is not fairly to behave, My Murray. Because if a live dog, 'tis said,
This votive pledge of fond esteem, Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou’lt… It sings of Love’s enchanting dre… A theme we never can despise. Who blames it but the envious fool…
Is thy face like thy mother’s, my… Ada! sole daughter of my house and… When last I saw thy young blue ey… And then we parted,—not as now we… But with a hope.—
Good plays are scarce: So Moore writes farce. The poet’s fame grows brittle— We knew before That Little’s Moore,
To be the father of the fatherless… To stretch the hand from the thron… His offspring, who expired in othe… To make thy sire’s sway by a kingd… This is to be a monarch, and repre…
No breath of air to break the wave That rolls below the Athenian’s g… That tomb which, gleaming o’er the… First greets the homeward-veering… High o’er the land he saved in vai…
Why should my anxious breast repin… Because my youth is fled? Days of delight may still be mine; Affection is not dead. In tracing back the years of youth…