#EnglishWriters #Romantic
ÃGLE, beauty and poet, has two l… She makes her own face, and does n…
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,…
ETERNAL SPIRIT of the chain… Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, t… For there thy habitation is the he… The heart which love of Thee alon… And when thy sons to fetters are c…
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…
When, to their airy hall, my fathe… Shall call my spirit, joyful in th… When, poised upon the gale, my for… Or, dark in mist, descend the moun… Oh! may my shade behold no sculptu…
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…
In digging up your bones, Tom Pai… Will. Cobbett has done well: You visit him on earth again, He’ll visit you in hell.
If sometimes in the haunts of men Thine image from my breast may fad… The lonely hour presents again The semblance of thy gentle shade: And now that sad and silent hour
Kind Reader! take your choice to… Here HAROLD lies, but where’s h… If such you seek, try Westminster… Ten thousand just as fit for him a… Athens
The Moorish King rides up and dow… Through Granada’s royal town; From Elvira’s gate to those Of Bivarambla on he goes. Woe is me, Alhama!
Whene’er I view those lips of thi… Their hue invites my fervent kiss; Yet, I forego that bliss divine, Alas! it were—-unhallow’d bliss. Whene’er I dream of that pure bre…
Ah!—What should follow slips from… Whatever follows ne’ertheless may… As à -propos of hope or retrospect… As though the lurking thought had… All present life is but an interje…
His father’s sense, his mother’s g… In him I hope, will always fit so… With—still to keep him in good cas… The health and appetite of Rizzo.
Remember thee! remember thee! Till Lethe quench life’s burning… Remorse and shame shall cling to t… And haunt thee like a feverish dre… Remember thee! Aye, doubt it not.
To hook the reader, you, John Mur… Have publish’d 'Anjou’s Margaret, Which won’t be sold off in a hurry (At least, it has not been as yet)… And then, still further to bewilde…