Hark! The drums! Muffled drums! The long low ruffle of the drums!-- And every head is bowed, In the vast expectant crowd, As the Great Queen comes,-- By the way she knew so well,...
My glass is filled, my pipe is lit, My den is all a cosy glow; And snug before the fire I sit, And wait to FEEL the old year go. I dedicate to solemn thought Amid my too-unthinking days,...
Silent as ever, stoic as of old, The scattered nomads of that dusky race Whose story shall forever be untold, Sit mid the ruins of their dwelling place...
Ere-while of Musick, and Ethereal mirth, Wherwith the stage of Ayr and Earth did ring, And joyous news of heav'nly Infants birth, My muse with Angels did divide to sing;...
When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutor'd youth, Unskilful in the world's false forgeries....
Those eyes that hold the hand of every heart, That hand that holds the heart of every eye, That wit that goes beyond all Nature's art, The sense too deep for Wisdom to descry;...
Where falls the shadow of the Kofel cross Athwart the Alpine snows, the rose of faith Is blooming still in consecrated hearts, And holy men another cross have hewn...
When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Thronged around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,...
Within the mind strong fancies work. A deep delight the bosom thrills Oft as I pass along the fork Of these fraternal hills: Where, save the rugged road, we find No appanage of human kind,...
All night above their rocky bed They saw the stars march slow; The wild Sierra overhead, The desert's death below. The Indian from his lodge of bark, The gray bear from his den,...
The debt is paid, The verdict said, The Furies laid, The plague is stayed. All fortunes made; Turn the key and bolt the door, Sweet is death forevermore. Nor haughty hope, nor swart chagrin,...
Fling my past behind me, like a robe Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date. I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep And dwell up on its beauty, and its dyes Of Oriental splendour, or complain...
1. Wilt thou forget the happy hours Which we buried in Love's sweet bowers, Heaping over their corpses cold Blossoms and leaves, instead of mould? Blossoms which were the joys that fell,...
I fling my past behind me, like a robe Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date. I have outgrown it. Wherefore should I weep And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes Of Oriental splendor, or complain...