TO be or not to be Of great capacity, Like Sir Isaac Newton, Or Locke, or Doctor South, Or Sherlock upon Death—
Ah! sunflower, weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun, Seeking after that sweet golden cl… Where the traveller’s journey is d… Where the youth pined away with de…
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,
Sound the flute! Now it’s mute. Birds delight Day and night. Nightingale
I LOVE the jocund dance, The softly breathing song, Where innocent eyes do glance, And where lisps the maiden’s tongu… I love the laughing vale,
“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
I travell’d thro’ a land of men, A land of men and women too; And heard and saw such dreadful th… As cold earth—wanderers never knew… For there the Babe is born in joy
I heard an Angel singing When the day was springing, “Mercy, Pity, Peace Is the world’s release.” Thus he sung all day
‘Nought loves another as itself, Nor venerates another so, Nor is it possible to thought A greater than itself to know. ’And, father, how can I love you
Sweet Mary, the first time she ev… Came into the ball—room among the… The young men and maidens around h… And these are the words upon every… `An Angel is here from the heaven…
FRESH from the dewy hill, the me… Smiles on my head and mounts his f… Round my young brows the laurel wr… And rising glories beam around my… My feet are wing’d, while o’er the…
‘Twas on a Holy Thursday, their i… The children walking two and two,… Grey headed beadles walk’d before,… Till into the high dome of Paul’s… Oh what a multitude they seem’d, t…
q|Preludium to the First Book of… Of the primeval Priest’s assum’d… When Eternals spurn’d back his Re… And gave him a place in the North… Obscure, shadowy, void, solitary.
Is this a holy thing to see In a rich and fruitful land, Babes reduced to misery, Fed with cold and usurous hand? Is that trembling cry a song?
Whether on Ida’s shady brow, Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, that now From ancient melody have ceas’d; Whether in Heav’n ye wander fair,