Where Harpur lies, the rainy streams, And wet hill-heads, and hollows weeping, Are swift with wind, and white with gleams, And hoarse with sounds of storms unsleeping. ...
In life I was the town drunkard; When I died the priest denied me burial In holy ground. The which redounded to my good fortune. For the Protestants bought this lot, And buried my body here,...
So ends Childe Harold his last pilgrimage! Above the Malian surge he stood, and cried, Liberty! and the shores, from age to age Renowned, and Sparta's woods and rocks, replied,...
Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth, Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel's will! Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:...
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand: I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand:...
Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven! - but thou, alas, Didst never yet one mortal song inspire - Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was, And is, despite of war and wasting fire,...
Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled, And then we parted, - not as now we part,...
Not in those climes where I have late been straying, Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed, Not in those visions to the heart displaying Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed,...
Born with the sun, the fair daughters of time, We silently lead to a lovelier clime, Where the day is undimmed by the shadows of night, But eternally beams from the fountain of light;...
Sing, Christmas bells! Say to the earth this is the morn Whereon our Savior-King is born; Sing to all men,--the bond, the free, The rich, the poor, the high, the low,...
The snow lies deep upon the ground, And winter's brightness all around Decks bravely out the forest sere, With jewels of the brave old year. The coasting crowd upon the hill...
Farewell to Northmaven, Grey Hillswicke, farewell! The storms on thy haven, The storms on thy fell, To each breeze that can vary The mood of thy main, And to thee, bonny Mary!...
As clever Tom Clinch, while the rabble was bawling, Rode stately through Holborn to die in his calling, He stopt at the George for a bottle of sack, And promised to pay for it when he came back....
We are co-heirs with Christ; nor shall His own Heirship be less by our adoption. The number here of heirs shall from the state Of His great birthright nothing derogate.
Come hither, child, who gifted thee With power to touch that string so well? How darest thou rouse up thoughts in me, Thoughts that I would, but cannot quell?
Come home! come home! O loved and lost, we sigh Thus, ever, while the weary days go by, And bring thee not. We miss thy bright, young face, Thy bounding step, thy form of girlish grace,...
Come home, come home! and where is home for me, Whose ship is driving o'er the trackless sea? To the frail bark here plunging on its way, To the wild waters, shall I turn and say...