#EnglishWriters #Romantic
Away, away, ye notes of woe! Be silent, thou once soothing stra… Or I must flee from hence—for, oh… I dare not trust those sounds agai… To me they speak of brighter days
When Bishop Berkeley said “there… And proved it—'twas no matter what… They say his system ‘tis in vain t… Too subtle for the airiest human h… And yet who can believe it! I wou…
Away with your fictions of flimsy… Those tissues of falsehood which… Give me the mild beam of the soul—… Or the rapture which dwells on the… Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with fant…
If, in the month of dark December… Leander, who was nightly wont (What maid will not the tale remem… To cross thy stream, broad Helles… If, when the wintry tempest roar’d…
You have ask’d for a verse:—the re… In a rhymer 'twere strange to deny… But my Hippocrene was but my brea… And my feelings (its fountain) are… Were I now as I was, I had sung
The world is a bundle of hay, Mankind are the asses who pull; Each tugs it a different way, And the greatest of all is John B…
Since our Country, our God—Oh, m… Demand that thy Daughter expire; Since thy triumph was brought by t… Strike the bosom that’s bared for… And the voice of my mourning is o’…
Oh! my lonely—lonely—lonely—Pillo… Where is my lover? where is my lov… Is it his bark which my dreary dre… Far—far away! and alone along the… Oh! my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pill…
When the moon is on the wave, And the glow-worm in the grass, And the meteor on the grave, And the wisp on the morass; When the falling stars are shootin…
Eliza, what fools are the Mussulm… Who to woman deny the soul’s futur… Could they see thee, Eliza, they’… And this doctrine would meet with… Had their prophet possess’d half a…
When coldness wraps this suffering… Ah! whither strays the immortal mi… It cannot die, it cannot stay, But leaves its darken’d dust behin… Then, unembodied, doth it trace
In the valley of the waters we wep… When the host of the stranger made… And our heads on our bosoms all dr… And our hearts were so full of the… The song they demanded in vain—it…
If, for silver or for gold, You could melt ten thousand pimple… Into half a dozen dimples, Then your face we might behold, Looking, doubtless, much more snug…
Few years have pass’d since thou a… Were firmest friends, at least in… And childhood’s gay sincerity Preserved our feelings long the sa… But now, like me, too well thou kn…
Time was, ere yet in these degener… Ignoble themes obtain’d mistaken p… When sense and wit with poesy alli… No fabl’d graces, flourish’d side… From the same fount their inspirat…