While I wrought out these fitful Danaan rhymes, My heart would brim with dreams about the times When we bent down above the fading coals And talked of the dark folk who live in souls...
What though while the wonders of nature exploring, I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend; Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring, Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend: ...
1. Thou art fair, and few are fairer Of the Nymphs of earth or ocean; They are robes that fit the wearer - Those soft limbs of thine, whose motion Ever falls and shifts and glances...
O Dark-Eyed goddess of the marble brow, Whose look is silence and whose touch is night, Who walkest lonely through the world, O thou, Who sittest lonely with Life's blown-out light;...
Go then, if she, whose shade thou art, No more will let thee soothe my pain; Yet, tell her, it has cost this heart Some pangs, to give thee back again.
Fairest and loveliest of the sun-born train That o'er the varying year alternate reign; Whose eye, soft-beaming with thy father's fire, Fond Nature woos with ever-fresh desire,...
O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down Thro' the clear windows of the morning, turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring! ...
I heard ye could cool heat, and came With hope you would allay the same; Thrice I have wash'd but feel no cold, Nor find that true which was foretold. Methinks, like mine, your pulses beat...
May Seventeenth in Eidsvold's church united, To hallow after fifty years the day When they who there our charter free indited, Together for our land were met to pray, -...
While, Stella, to your lasting praise The Muse her annual tribute pays, While I assign myself a task Which you expect, but scorn to ask; If I perform this task with pain,...
Pallas, observing Stella's wit Was more than for her sex was fit, And that her beauty, soon or late, Might breed confusion in the state, In high concern for human kind, Fix'd honour in her infant mind....
As, when a lofty pile is raised, We never hear the workmen praised, Who bring the lime, or place the stones. But all admire Inigo Jones: So, if this pile of scatter'd rhymes...
O thou who passest thro' our valleys in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer, Oft pitched'st here thy goldent tent, and oft...
There lies the trail to Sunnydale, Amid the lure of laughter. Oh, how can we unhappy be Beneath its leafy rafter! Each perfect hour is like a flower, Each day is like a posy....
I'm sick of love, O let me lie Under your shades to sleep or die! Either is welcome, so I have Or here my bed, or here my grave. Why do you sigh, and sob, and keep Time with the tears that I do weep?...