#EnglishWriters
O what a joyous joyous day Is that on which we come At the recess from school away, Each lad to his own home! What though the coach is crammëd f…
Thou should’st have longer liv’d,… Have peacefully gone down in full… Thy children would have tended thy… We might have sat, as we have ofte… By our fireside, and talk’d whole…
A dozen years since in this house… What bustle, what stir, and what j… Every soul in the family at my dev… When into the world I came twelve… I’ve been told by my friends (if t…
Margaret, in happy hour Christen’d from that humble flower Which we a daisy call! May thy pretty name—sake be In all things a type of thee,
‘I keep it, dear papa, within my g… ‘You do—what sum then usually, my… Is there deposited? I make no dou… Some penny pieces you are not with… 'O no, papa, they’d soil my glove,…
When the arts in their infancy wer… In a fable of old ‘tis exprest, A wise magpie constructed that rar… Little house for young birds, call… This was talked of the whole count…
I have got a new—born sister; I was nigh the first that kissed h… When the nursing woman brought her To papa, his infant daughter, How papa’s dear eyes did glisten!—
'Your prayers you have said, and y… What cause is there yet keeps my d… This throb in your bosom proclaims… Disturbs your composure. Can inno… ‘Why thus do you cling to my neck,…
Incorrectness in your speech Carefully avoid, my Anna; Study well the sense of each Sentence, lest in any manner It misrepresent the truth;
In your garb and outward clothing A reservëd plainness use; By their neatness more distinguish… Than the brightness of their hues. All the colours in the rainbow
Well, they are gone, and here must… This lime—tree bower my prison! I… Beauties and feelings, such as wou… Most sweet to my remembrance even… Had dimm’d mine eyes to blindness!…
A timid grace sits trembling in he… As loath to meet the rudeness of m… Yet shedding a delicious lunar lig… That steeps in kind oblivious ecst… The care—crazed mind, like some st…
This picture does the story expres… Of Moses in the bulrushes. How livelily the painter’s hand By colours makes us understand! Moses that little infant is.
Come my little Robert near— Fie! what filthy hands are here! Who that e’er could understand The rare structure of a hand, With its branching fingers fine,
Alone, obscure, without a friend, A cheerless, solitary thing, Why seeks, my Lloyd, the stranger… What offering can the stranger bri… Of social scenes, home—bred deligh…