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Spirit of Plato
FROM THE GREEK. Eagle! why soarest thou above that tomb? To what sublime and star-ypaven home Floatest thou?-- I am the image of swift Plato's spirit, Ascending heaven; Athens doth inherit His corpse
Song of Proserpine While Gathering Flowers on the Plain of Enna
Sacred Goddess, Mother Earth, Thou from whose immortal bosom Gods, and men, and beasts have birth, Leaf and blade, and bud and blossom, Breathe thine influence most divine On thine own child, Proserpi
On Being Asked What Was the "Origin of Love."
The "Origin of Love!"--Ah, why That cruel question ask of me, When thou mayst read in many an eye He starts to life on seeing thee? And shouldst thou seek his _end_ to know: My heart forebodes,
The Waning Moon
And like a dying lady, lean and pale, Who totters forth, wrapped in a gauzy veil, Out of her chamber, led by the insane And feeble wanderings of her fading brain, The moon arose up in the murky East,
On My Wedding-Day
HERE'S a happy New Year! but with reason I beg you'll permit me to say-- Wish me _many_ returns of the _Season_, But as _few_ as you please of the _Day_.
Epitaph. on James Craggs, Esq. in Westminster Abbey.
JACOBUS CRAGGS REGI MAGNAE BRITANNIA A SECRETIS ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS, PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIAE: VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR ANNOS, HEU PAUCOS, XXXV. OB. FEB. XVI. MDCCXX.
Mother and Babe.
I SEE the sleeping babe, nestling the breast of its mother; The sleeping mother and babe—hush’d, I study them long and long.
Infant Sorrow
My mother groaned, my father wept: Into the dangerous world I leapt, Helpless, naked, piping loud, Like a fiend hid in a cloud. Struggling in my father's hands, Striving against my swaddling-bands, B
Do People moulder equally,
Do People moulder equally, They bury, in the Grave? I do believe a Species As positively live As I, who testify it Deny that I -- am dead -- And fill my Lungs, for Witness -- From Tanks -- above my H
Nurse's Song
When voices of children are heard on the green, And whisperings are in the dale, The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind, My face turns green and pale. Then come home, my children, the sun is gone
Epitaph. on the Hon. Simon Harcourt, Only Son of the Lord Chancellor
HARCOURT, AT THE CHURCH OF STANTON HARCOURT, IN OXFORDSHIRE, 1720. To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near; Here lies the friend most loved, the son most dear: Who ne'er knew joy, but friends
To Mr C., St James's Place.
Few words are best; I wish you well: Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here; Some morning walks along the Mall, And evening friends, will end the year. If in this interval, between The f
Stanzas
WHEN a man hath no freedom to fight for at home, Let him combat for that of his neighbours; Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome, And get knocked on the head for his labours. To do
I've known a Heaven, like a Tent
I've known a Heaven, like a Tent -- To wrap its shining Yards -- Pluck up its stakes, and disappear -- Without the sound of Boards Or Rip of Nail -- Or Carpenter -- But just the miles of Stare -- That
From the Original Draft of the Poem to William Shelley
The world is now our dwelling-place; Where'er the earth one fading trace Of what was great and free does keep, That is our home!... Mild thoughts of man's ungentle race Shall our contented exile reap;
To Harriet
Ever as now with Love and Virtue's glow May thy unwithering soul not cease to burn, Still may thine heart with those pure thoughts o'erflow Which force from mine such quick and warm return.
Epitaph. on Mr Gay, in Westminster Abbey, 1732.
Of manners gentle, of affections mild; In wit, a man; simplicity, a child: With native humour tempering virtuous rage, Form'd to delight at once and lash the age: Above temptation in a low estate, And
Than Heaven more remote,
Than Heaven more remote, For Heaven is the root, But these the flitted seed. More flown indeed Than ones that never were, Or those that hide, and are. What madness, by their side, A vision to provide
To-Morrow
Where art thou, beloved To-morrow? When young and old, and strong and weak, Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow, Thy sweet smiles we ever seek,-- In thy place--ah! well-a-day! We find the thing we f
Spring & Fall: To A Young Child
Margaret, are you grieving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leaves, like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? Ah! as the heart grows older It will come to such sights colder B
Epitaph. Another, on the Same.
Under this marble, or under this sill, Or under this turf, or e'en what they will; Whatever an heir, or a friend in his stead, Or any good creature shall lay o'er my head, Lies one who ne'er cared, an
Take your Heaven further on
Take your Heaven further on -- This -- to Heaven divine Has gone -- Had You earlier blundered in Possibly, e'en You had seen An Eternity -- put on -- Now -- to ring a Door beyond Is the utmost of Your
Fragment on Keats
ON KEATS, WHO DESIRED THAT ON HIS TOMB SHOULD BE INSCRIBED-- 'Here lieth One whose name was writ on water. But, ere the breath that could erase it blew, Death, in remorse for that fell slaughter, Dea
The Clod and the Pebble
"Love seeketh not itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care, But for another gives it ease, And builds a heaven in hell's despair." So sang a little clod of clay, Trodden with the cattle's