When I of Villars do but hear the name, It calls to mind that mighty Buckingham, Who was your brave exalted uncle here, Binding the wheel of fortune to his sphere,...
In spring of youth it was my lot To haunt of the wide world a spot The which I could not love the less, So lovely was the loneliness Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,...
Bird of the morn, When roseate clouds begin To show the opening dawn Thou gladly sing'st it in, And o'er the sweet green fields and happy vales Thy pleasant song is heard, mixed with the morning gales....
Good speed, for I this day Betimes my matins say: Because I do Begin to woo, Sweet-singing lark, Be thou the clerk, And know thy when To say, Amen. And if I prove Bless'd in my love,...
Small twilight singer Of dew and mist: thou ghost-gray, gossamer winger Of dusk's dim glimmer, How cool thy note sounds; how thy wings of shimmer Vibrate, soft-sighing,...
To the leaven'd soil they trod, calling, I sing, for the last; (Not cities, nor man alone, nor war, nor the dead, But forth from my tent emerging for good, loosing, untying the tent-ropes;)...
Thou art my thought, my heart, my being's fortune, The search for thee my growth's first conscious date; For nought, for everything, I thee importune; Thou art my all, my origin and fate!
Ye pretty housewives, would ye know The work that I would put ye to? This, this it should be: for to spin A lawn for me, so fine and thin As it might serve me for my skin....
Thou pulse of hotness, who, with reed-like breast, Makest meridian music, long and loud, Accentuating summer! dost thy best To make the sunbeams fiercer, and to crowd...
1. 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!
Cromwell, our cheif of men, who through a cloud Not of warr onely, but detractions rude, Guided by faith & matchless Fortitude To peace & truth thy glorious way hast plough'd,...
Go on, brave Hopton, to effectuate that Which we, and times to come, shall wonder at. Lift up thy sword; next, suffer it to fall, And by that one blow set an end to all.
My dear Lord Mayor, - In Fleet Street all is gay From min' office window I catch glimpses Of fluttering bunting and swinging festoons. I don't know who pays for them...
If former times had never left a trace Of human frailty in their onward race, Nor o'er their pathway written, as they ran, One dark memorial of the crimes of man;...
If after times Should pay the least attention to these rhymes, I bid them learn 'Tis not my own heart here That doth so often seem to break and burn - O no such thing! - Nor is it my own dear...
Come, sit we under yonder tree, Where merry as the maids we'll be; And as on primroses we sit, We'll venture, if we can, at wit; If not, at draw-gloves we will play, So spend some minutes of the day;...