Since the refinement of this polish'd age Has swept immoral raillery from the stage; Since taste has now expung'd licentious wit, Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;...
In my Autumn garden I was fain To mourn among my scattered roses; Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses To Autumn's languid sun and rain When all the world is on the wane!...
One moment the slim cloudflakes seem to lean With their sad sunward faces aureoled, And longing lips set downward brightening To take the last sweet hand kiss of the king,...
Ah Ben! Say how, or when Shall we thy guests Meet at those lyric feasts Made at the Sun, The Dog, the Triple Tun? Where we such clusters had As made us nobly wild, not mad;...
Ah Ben! Say how, or when Shall we thy guests Meet at those lyric feasts Made at the Sun, The Dog, the Triple Tun? Where we such clusters had, As made us nobly wild, not mad;...
I. Prepare the hallow'd strain, My Muse, Thy softest sounds and sweetest numbrs chuse; the bright Cecilia's praise rehearse, In warbling words,a nd glittering verse, that smootly run into a song,...
When great Augustus govern'd ancient Rome, And sent his conquering bands to foreign wars, Abroad when dreaded, and beloved at home, He saw his fame increasing with his years,...
They who maintained their rights, Through storm and stress, And walked in all the ways That God made known, Led by no wandering lights, And by no guess, Through dark and desolate days...
How long, deluded Albion, wilt thou lie In the lethargic sleep, the sad repose By which thy close thy constant enemy Has softly lull'd thee to thy woes? Or wake, degenerate isle, or cease to own...
Say, dearest Villiers, poor departed friend, (Since fleeting life thus suddenly must end) Say, what did all thy busy hopes avail, That anxious thou from pole to pole didst sail,...
(After seeing at Boston the statue of Robert Gould Shaw, killed while storming Fort Wagner, July 18, 1863, at the head of the first enlisted negro regiment, the 54th Massachusetts.)
In numbers, and but these few, I sing thy birth, oh JESU! Thou pretty Baby, born here, With sup'rabundant scorn here; Who for thy princely port here, Hadst for thy place Of birth, a base...
In numbers, and but these few, I sing Thy birth, O JESU! Thou pretty baby, born here, With sup'rabundant scorn here; Who for Thy princely port here, Hadst for Thy place Of birth a base...
Say, ye apostate and profane, Wretches, who blush not to disdain Allegiance to your God,' Did e'er your idly wasted love Of virtue for her sake remove And lift you from the crowd?
As wand'ring late on Albion's shore That chains the rude tempestuous deep, I heard the hollow surges roar And vainly beat her guardian steep; I heard the rising sounds of woe...
Home, thou return'st from Thames, whose naiads long Have seen thee ling'ring with a fond delay 'Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some future day, Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song....