My rhymes are rough, and often in my rhyming I've drifted, silver-sailed, on seas of dream, Hearing afar the bells of Elfland chiming, Seeing the groves of Arcadie agleam. ...
Thou who hast slept all night upon the storm, Waking renew'd on thy prodigious pinions, (Burst the wild storm? above it thou ascended'st, And rested on the sky, thy slave that cradled thee,)...
My dear Sir, - I suppose you are having an excellent time just now. There are a large number of counties In England and Scotland, And I am not acquainted with one of them Wherein your bang-bang...
Lonesome on earth's loneliest deep, Sailor! who dost thy vigil keep-- Off the Cape of Storms dost musing sweep Over monstrous waves that curl and comb; Of thee we think when here from brink...
Thou hast fallen in thine armor, Thou martyr of the Lord With thy last breath crying "Onward!" And thy hand upon the sword. The haughty heart derideth, And the sinful lip reviles,...
Would I could talk as the flowers talk To my soul! and the stars, in their ceaseless walk Through Heaven! and tell to the high and low The things that they say, so all might know...
The World, its hopes and fears, have pass'd away; No more its trifling thou shalt feel or see; Thy hopes are ripening in a brighter day, While these left buds thy monument shall be....
God has his plans, and what if we With our sight be too blind to see Their full fruition; cannot he, Who made it, solve the mystery? One whom we loved has fall'n asleep,...
Farewell, too little, and too lately known, Whom I began to think, and call my own: For sure our souls were near allied, and thine Cast in the same poetic mould with mine!...
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; While I confess thy writings to be such As neither man nor muse can praise too much;...
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; While I confess thy writings to be such As neither man nor Muse can praise too much....
By duty bound, and not by custome led To celebrate the praises of the dead, My mournfull mind, sore prest, in trembling verse Presents my Lamentations at his Herse, Who was my Father, Guide, Instructor too,...
And live I still to see relations gone, And yet survive to sound this wailing tone; Ah, woe is me, to write thy Funeral Song, Who might in reason yet have lived long,...
Calvert! it must not be unheard by them Who may respect my name, that I to thee Owed many years of early liberty. This care was thine when sickness did condemn Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem...