We give the world to understand, Our thriving Dean has purchased land; A purchase which will bring him clear Above his rent four pounds a-year; Provided to improve the ground,...
Drink to her, who long, Hath waked the poet's sigh. The girl, who gave to song What gold could never buy. Oh! woman's heart was made For minstrel hands alone; By other fingers played,...
Grave Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pass, That you, who know music no more than an ass, That you who so lately were writing of drapiers, Should lend your cathedral to players and scrapers?...
Deplorable his lot who tills the ground, His whole life long tills it, with heartless toil Of villain-service, passing with the soil To each new Master, like a steer or hound,...
"What beast in wilderness or cultured field "The lively beauty of the leopard shows? "What flower in meadow-ground or garden grows "That to the towering lily doth not yield?...
"Woe to you, Prelates! rioting in ease "And cumbrous wealth the shame of your estate; "You, on whose progress dazzling trains await "Of pompous horses; whom vain titles please;...
Where long and deeply hath been fixed the root In the blest soil of gospel truth, the Tree, (Blighted or scathed tho' many branches be, Put forth to wither, many a hopeful shoot)...
When thy great soul was freed from mortal chains, Darling of England! many a bitter shower Fell on thy tomb; but emulative power Flowed in thy line through undegenerate veins....
I hear no footfall beating through the dark, A lonely gust is loitering at the pane; There is no sound within these forests stark Beyond a splash or two of sullen rain; ...
"Sign the petition!" "Write my name!" "She said, ask me!" oh, she's fooling; Where do you think a girl like me Could find the time for so much schooling? Why, I've been here since I was eight or so...
We wait beneath the furnace-blast The pangs of transformation; Not painlessly doth God recast And mould anew the nation. Hot burns the fire Where wrongs expire; Nor spares the hand...
With copious eulogy in prose or rhyme Graven on the tomb we struggle against Time, Alas, how feebly! but our feelings rise And still we struggle when a good man dies:...
O for a dirge! But why complain? Ask rather a triumphal strain When Fermor's race is run; A garland of immortal boughs To twine around the Christian's brows, Whose glorious work is done. ...
The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo! That instant, startled by the shock, The Buzzard mounted from the rock Deliberate and slow: Lord of the air, he took his flight;...