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Praise for Faith
Of all the gifts Thine hand bestows, Thou Giver of all good! Not heaven itself a richer knows Than my Redeemer's blood. Faith too, the blood-receiving grace, From the same hand we gain; Else, sweetly
352. The Song of Death
FAREWELL, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now gay with the broad setting sun; Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, Our race of existence is run! Thou grim King of T
Envoy For "A Child's Garden Of Verses"
WHETHER upon the garden seat You lounge with your uplifted feet Under the May's whole Heaven of blue; Or whether on the sofa you, No grown up person being by, Do some soft corner occupy; Take you this
To Mr John Moore, Author of the Celebrated Worm-Powder.
How much, egregious Moore, are we Deceived by shows and forms! Whate'er we think, whate'er we see, All humankind are worms. Man is a very worm by birth, Vile reptile, weak and
Upon My Dear and Loving Husband his Going into England Jan. 16
O thou Most High who rulest all And hear'st the prayers of thine, O hearken, Lord, unto my suit And my petition sign. Into Thy everlasting arms Of mercy I commend Thy servant, Lord. Keep and preserve
19. A Prayer in the Prospect of Death
O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear! In whose dread presence, ere an hour, Perhaps I must appear! If I have wander’d in those paths Of life I ought to shun, As something, lo
Of a Lady Singing to Her Lute.
IMMITATION OF ENGLISH POETS. WALLER Fair charmer, cease! nor make your voice's prize, A heart resign'd, the conquest of your eyes: Well might, alas! that threaten'd vessel fail, Which winds and light
193. On Scaring some Water-Fowl in Lock Turit
WHY, ye tenants of the lake, For me your wat’ry haunt forsake? Tell me, fellow-creatures, why At my presence thus you fly? Why disturb your social joys, Parent, filial, kindred ties?— Common friend to
To Constantia, Singing
Thus to be lost and thus to sink and die, Perchance were death indeed!--Constantia, turn! In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie, Even though the sounds which were thy voice, which burn Between
To the Lord Chancellor
Thy country's curse is on thee, darkest crest Of that foul, knotted, many-headed worm Which rends our Mother's bosom--Priestly Pest! Masked Resurrection of a buried Form! Thy country's curse is on th
Fragment of a Satire on Satire
If gibbets, axes, confiscations, chains, And racks of subtle torture, if the pains Of shame, of fiery Hell's tempestuous wave, Seen through the caverns of the shadowy grave, Hurling the damned into th
Dirge for the Year
Orphan Hours, the Year is dead, Come and sigh, come and weep! Merry Hours, smile instead, For the Year is but asleep. See, it smiles as it is sleeping, Mocking your untimely weeping. As an earthquake
The Solitary
Dar'st thou amid the varied multitude To live alone, an isolated thing? To see the busy beings round thee spring, And care for none; in thy calm solitude, A flower that scarce breathes in the desert r
Bereavement
How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner, As he bends in still grief o'er the hallowed bier, As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner, And drops, to Perfection's remembrance, a tear
Epitaphium
[LATIN VERSION OF THE EPITAPH IN GRAY'S ELEGY.] Hic sinu fessum caput hospitali Cespitis dormit juvenis, nec illi Fata ridebant, popularis ille Nescius aurae. Musa non vultu genus arroganti Rustica
264. Song—On a Bank of Flowers
ON a bank of flowers, in a summer day, For summer lightly drest, The youthful, blooming Nelly lay, With love and sleep opprest; When Willie, wand’ring thro’ the wood, Who for her favour oft had su
438. Impromptu on Mrs. Riddell’s Birthday
OLD Winter, with his frosty beard, Thus once to Jove his prayer preferred: “What have I done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe? My cheerless suns no pleasure know; Night’s horrid car dra
347. Song—Ye Jacobites by Name
YE Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear, Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, Ye Jacobites by name, Your fautes I will proclaim, Your doctrines I maun blame, you shall hear. What is Right,
551. Ballad on Mr. Heron’s Election—No. 4
WHA will buy my troggin, fine election ware, Broken trade o’ Broughton, a’ in high repair? Chorus.—Buy braw troggin frae the banks o’ Dee; Wha wants troggin let him come to me. There’s a noble Ear
The Thanksgiving
Oh King of grief! (a title strange, yet true, To thee of all kings only due) Oh King of wounds! how shall I grieve for thee, Who in all grief preventest me? Shall I weep blood? why thou has wept such
Ballade De Marguerite (Normande)
I am weary of lying within the chase When the knights are meeting in market-place. Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down. But I would not go where t
The Chimney-Sweeper
When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue Could scarcely cry "Weep! weep! weep! weep!" So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep. There's little Tom Dacre, w
Peace
Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave, Let me once know. I sought thee in a secret cave, And ask'd, if Peace were there, A hollow wind did seem to answer, No: Go seek elsewhere. I did; a
Pignus Amoris
As by the fix'd decrees of Heaven, 'Tis vain to hope that Joy can last; The dearest boon that Life has given, To me is--visions of the past. For these this toy of blushing hue I prize with zeal bef