#EnglishWriters
Arise, arise, arise! There is blood on the earth that d… Be your wounds like eyes To weep for the dead, the dead, th… What other grief were it just to p…
Where man’s profane and tainting h… Nature’s primaeval loveliness ha… And some few souls of the high bli… Which else obey her powerful comma… ...mountain piles
Is it the Eternal Triune, is it… Who dares arrest the wheels of des… And plunge me in the lowest Hell… Will not the lightning’s blast des… Will not steel drink the blood-lif…
DRAMATIS PERSONÃ Count Francesco Cenci. Giacomo, his Son. Bernardo, his Son. Cardinal Camillo.
Lift not the painted veil which th… Call Life: though unreal shapes b… And it but mimic all we would beli… With colours idly spread,-behind,… And Hope, twin Destinies; who eve…
Cold, cold is the blast when Dece… Cold are the damps on a dying man’… Stern are the seas when the wild w… And sad is the grave where a loved… But colder is scorn from the being…
The fierce beasts of the woods and… Track not the steps of him who dri… For the light breezes, which for e… Around its margin, heap the sand t…
How swiftly through Heaven’s wide… Bright day’s resplendent colours f… How sweetly does the moonbeam’s gl… With silver tint St. Irvyne’s gla… II.
The sun is set; the swallows are a… The bats are flitting fast in the… The slow soft toads out of damp co… And evening’s breath, wandering he… Over the quivering surface of the…
'Tis the terror of tempest. The r… Are flickering in ribbons within t… From the stark night of vapours th… And when lightning is loosed, like… She sees the black trunks of the w…
And canst thou mock mine agony, th… In cloudless radiance, Queen of s… Can you, ye flow’rets, spread your… Mid pearly gems of dew that shine… And you wild winds, thus can you s…
Great Spirit whom the sea of boun… Nurtures within its unimagined cav… In which thou sittest sole, as in… Giving a voice to its mysterious w…
God prosper, speed, and save, God raise from England’s grave Her murdered Queen! Pave with swift victory The steps of Liberty,
(With what truth may I say— Roma! Roma! Roma! Non e piu come era prima!) My lost William, thou in whom Some bright spirit lived, and did
Rarely, rarely, comest thou, Spirit of Delight! Wherefore hast thou left me now Many a day and night? Many a weary night and day