Once a dream did weave a shade O’er my angel—guarded bed, That an emmet lost its way Where on grass methought I lay. Troubled, wildered and forlorn,
O THOU with dewy locks, who look… Thro’ the clear windows of the mor… Thine angel eyes upon our western… Which in full choir hails thy appr… The hills tell each other, and the…
LO! the Bat with leathern wing, Winking and blinking, Winking and blinking, Winking and blinking, Like Dr. Johnson.
The sun descending in the west, The evening star does shine; The birds are silent in their nest… And I must seek for mine. The moon, like a flower
AS I walk’d forth one May mornin… To see the fields so pleasant and… O! there did I spy a young maiden… Among the violets that smell so sw… smell so sweet,
The shadowy Daughter of Urthona s… When fourteen suns had faintly jou… His food she brought in iron baske… Crown’d with a helmet and dark hai… A quiver with its burning stores,…
[PLATE 3] The Guardian Prince of Albion bu… Sullen fires across the Atlantic… Piercing the souls of warlike men,… Washington, Franklin, Paine & Wa…
Sweet dreams form a shade, O’er my lovely infants head. Sweet dreams of pleasant streams, By happy silent moony beams Sweet sleep with soft down.
I wander thro’ each charter’d stre… Near where the charter’d Thames d… And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man,
Sound the flute! Now it’s mute. Birds delight Day and night. Nightingale
LEAVE, O leave me to my sorrows… Here I’ll sit and fade away, Till I’m nothing but a spirit, And I lose this form of clay. Then if chance along this forest
JUSTICE hath heaved a sword to plunge in Albion’s breast; for Albion’s sins are crimson dy’d, and the red scourge follows her desolate sons. Then Patriot rose; full oft did Patriot rise...
Can I see another’s woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another’s grief, And not seek for kind relief? Can I see a falling tear,
“Love seeketh not itself to please… Nor for itself hath any care, But for another gives its ease, And builds a Heaven in Hell's des… So sung a little Clod of Clay
Memory, hither come, And tune your merry notes; And, while upon the wind Your music floats, I’ll pore upon the stream