#Irish #Women
The stately homes of England How beautiful they stand! Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O’er all the pleasant land! The deer across their green sward…
There were thick leaves above me a… And low sweet sighs like those of… Amidst their dimness, and a fitful… As of soft showers on water; dark… Lay the oak shadows o’er the turf,…
Whither, oh! whither wilt thou win… What solemn region first upon thy… Shall break, unveiled for terror o… What hosts, magnificent in dread a… My spirit! when thy prison-house o…
There blend the ties that strength… Our hearts in hours of grief, The silver links that lengthen Joy’s visits when most brief. BERNARD BARTON.
THERE is an hour, a pensive hour… (And oh! how dear its soothing pow… It is, when twilight spreads her v… And steals along the silent dale; ’Tis when the fading blossoms clos…
We saw thee, O stranger, and wept… We look’d for the youth of the sun… Whose step was the fleetest in cha… The light of his eye was a joy to… The path of his arrows a storm to…
Thy foes had girt thee with their… O stately Alexandra! - yet the so… Of mirth and music, at the close o… Swelled from thy splendid fabrics,… O’er camp and wave. Within the ro…
I made a mountain-brook my guide Thro’ a wild Spanish glen, And wandered, on its grassy side, Far from the homes of men. It lured me with a singing tone,
Fair land! of chivalry the old dom… Land of the vine and olive, lovely… Though not for thee with classic s… In charms that fix the enthusiast’… Yet hast thou scenes of beauty, ri…
THRONE of expression! whence th… Pours forth so oft the light of me… Where fancy’s fire, affection’s me… Thought, genius, passion, reign in… And many a feeling, words can ne’e…
In the deep hour of dreams, Through the dark woods, and past t… And by the star-light gleams, Mother of sorrows! lo, I come to… Unto thy shrine I bear
And is not love in vain, Torture enough without a living to… Byron Fermossi al fin il cor che balzò t… Pindemonte
SUBLIME is thy prospect, thou p… And Fancy surveys thee with solem… When thy mountainous billows are w… And the tempest is roused by the s… When the moon-beams thro’ winter-c…
When will ye think of me, my frien… When will ye think of me? When the last red light, the farew… From the rock and the river is pas… When the air with a deep’ning hush…
It wav’d not thro’ an Eastern sky… Beside a fount of Araby; It was not fann’d by southern bree… In some green isle of Indian seas… Nor did its graceful shadow sleep