Thee do I own, the prompter of my… The soother of my cares, inspiring… And I will ne’er forsake thee. Me… And blame and censure me, that I… My every thought down to the desk,…

‘Do I not feel?’ The doubt is kee… Yea, I do feel-most exquisitely f… My heart can weep, when, from my d… I chase the tear, and stem the ris… Deep buried there I close the ran…

Hence, away, vindictive thought; Thy pictures are of pain; The visions through thy dark eye c… They with no gentle charms are fra… So pr’y thee back again.

Give me a cottage on some Cambria… Where, far from cities, I may spe… And, by the beauties of the scene… May pity man’s pursuits, and shun… While on the rock I mark the brow…

Ill-fated maid, in whose unhappy t… Chill poverty and misery are seen, Anguish and discontent, the unhapp… Of life, and blackener of each bri… Why to thy votaries dost thou give…

Down the sultry arc of day The burning wheels have urged thei… And eve along the western skies Sheds her intermingling dyes. Down the deep, the miry lane,

Be hush’d, be hush’d, ye bitter wi… Ye pelting rains, a little rest; Lie still, lie still, ye busy thou… That wring with grief my aching br… Oh! cruel was my faithless love,

The night it was still, and the mo… Serenely on the sea, And the waves at the foot of the r… They murmur’d pleasantly, When Gondoline roam’d along the s…

Mild offspring of a dark and sulle… Whose modest form, so delicately f… Was nursed in whirling storms And cradled in the winds; Thee, when young Spring first que…

Mild orb, who floatest through the… A pathless wanderer o’er a lonely… Welcome to me thy soft and pensive… Which oft in childhood my lone tho… Now doubly dear as o’er my silent…

Reader! if with no vulgar sympathy Thou view’st the wreck of genius a… Stay thou thy footsteps near this… Here Cowper rests. Although renow… His name familiar to thine ear, th…

Music, all powerful o’er the human… Can still each mental storm, each… Soothe anxious care on sleepless c… And e’en fierce Anger’s furious r… At her command the various passion…

It is not that my lot is low, That bids this silent tear to flow… It is not grief that bids me moan; It is that I am all alone. In woods and glens I love to roam…

Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melo… At evening rising slow, yet sweetl… Steal on the musing poet’s pensive… As by the wood-spring stretch’d su… When he, who now invokes you, low…

Not unfamiliar to mine ear, Blasts of the night! ye howl as no… My shuddering casement loud With fitful force ye beat. Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe,