For brave comportment, wit without offence, Words fully flowing, yet of influence: Thou art that man of men, the man alone, Worthy the public admiration: Who with thine own eyes read'st what we do write,...
Tell that brave man, fain thou would'st have access To kiss his hands, but that for fearfulness; Or else because th'art like a modest bride, Ready to blush to death, should he but chide.
On, as thou hast begun, brave youth, and get The palm from Urbin, Titian, Tintoret, Brugel and Coxu, and the works outdo Of Holbein and that mighty Rubens too. So draw and paint as none may do the like,...
Go, pretty child, and bear this flower Unto thy little Saviour; And tell him, by that bud now blown, He is the Rose of Sharon known. When thou hast said so, stick it there Upon his bib or stomacher;...
Since now thou art about to leave Thy father's quiet house, And all the phantoms and illusions dear, That heaven-born fancies round it weave, And to this lonely region lend their charm,...
When after many lusters thou shalt be Wrapt up in sear-cloth with thine ancestry; When of thy ragg'd escutcheons shall be seen So little left, as if they ne'er had been;...
This life, dear Corry, who can doubt?-- Resembles much friend Ewart's[1] wine, When first the rosy drops come out, How beautiful, how clear they shine!...
Our dearest joys forever flow From fountains of the Long Ago, That from the heights of pleasures past Flood all the present valleys vast, And with eternal glees provide The future's endless ocean tide....
O lyrist of the lowly and the true, The song I sought for you Hides yet unsung. What hope for me to find, Lost in the d'dal mind, The living utterance with lovely tongue! To say, as erst was sung...
While briers an' woodbines budding green, An' paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en, An' morning poussie whidden seen, Inspire my muse, This freedom in an unknown frien'...
Kinsman beloved, and as a son, by me! When I behold the fruit of thy regard, The sculptured form of my old favourite bard, I reverence feel for him, and love for thee:...
Why, let the stingless critic chide With all that fume of vacant pride Which mantles o'er the pendant fool, Like vapor on a stagnant pool. Oh! if the song, to feeling true,...