#Romantic
MY hopes retire; my wishes as bef… Struggle to find their resting—pla… The ebbing sea thus beats against… The shore repels it; it returns ag…
Rejoice, ye nations! one is dead By whom ten thousand hearts have b… Widows and orphans, raise your voi… One voice, ye prostrate peoples, r… To God; to God alone be praise!
To my ninth decade I have tottere… And no soft arm bends now my steps… She, who once led me where she wou… So when he calls me, Death shall…
With much ado you fail to tell The requisites for writing well; But, what bad writing is, you quit… Have proved by every line you writ…
Welcome, old friend! These many y… Have we lived door by door; The fates have laid aside their sh… Perhaps for some few more. I was indocile at an age
O’erfoaming with rage The foul—mouth’d judge Page Thus question’d a thief in the doc… “Didst never hear read In the church, lump of lead!
There is delight in singing, tho’… Beside the singer; and there is de… In praising, tho’ the praiser sit… And see the prais’d far off him, f… Shakspeare is not our poet, but th…
The chrysolites and rubies Bacchu… To crown the feast where swells th… Where maidens blush at what the mi… They who have coveted may covet no… Bring me, in cool alcove, the grap…
WE are what suns and winds and wa… The mountains are our sponsors, an… Fashion and win their nursling wit… But where the land is dim from tyr… There tiny pleasures occupy the pl…
BORGIA, thou once wert almost t… And high for adoration; now thou ’… All that remains of thee these pla… Calm hair meandering in pellucid g…
Once a fair city, courted then by… Mistress of nations, thronged by p… Raising her head o’er destiny, her… Glowing with pleasure and with pal… Now pointed at by Wisdom or by We…
Ah what avails the sceptred race, Ah what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful e…
OVER his millions Death has lawf… But over thee, brave D’Ossoli! no… After a longer struggle, in a figh… Worthy of Italy, to youth restor’… Thou, far from home, art sunk bene…
I sing the fates of Gebir. He had… Among those mountain—caverns which… His labours yet, vast halls and fl… Nor have forgotten their old maste… Though severed from his people her…
TO write as your sweet mother doe… Is all you wish to do. Play, sing, and smile for others,… Let others write for you. Or mount again your Dartmoor grey…
