O fortress city, bathed by streams Majestic as thy memories great, Where mountains, floods, and forests mate The grandeur of the glorious dreams, Born of the hero hearts who died...
Quebec, the gray old city on the hill, Lies, with a golden glory on her head, Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still, Of other days and her belov'd dead. The doves are nesting in the cannons grim,...
Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright. ...
My hands were stained with blood, my heart was proud and cold, My soul is black with shame . . . but I gave Shakespeare gold. So after aeons of flame, I may, by grace of God,...
In the lone tent, waiting for victory, She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain, Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain: The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky,...
Queen Hilda rode along the lines, And she was young and fair; And forward on her shoulders fell The heavy braids of hair: No gold was ever dug from earth Like that burnished there,...
[An edition (250 copies) of "Queen Mab" was printed at London in the summer of 1813 by Shelley himself, whose name, as author and printer, appears on the title-page. Of this edition about seventy copies were privately distribut...
Once I loved a fairy, Queen Mab it was. Her voice Was like a little Fountain That bids the birds rejoice. Her face was wise and solemn, Her hair was brown and fine. Her dress was pansy velvet,...
Pale moon! thy mild benignant light May glad some other captive's sight; Bright'ning the gloomy objects nigh, Thy beams a lenient thought supply: But, oh, pale moon! what ray of thine...
Henry the first, surnamed " Beauclare," Lost his only son William at sea, So when Henry died it were hard to decide Who his heir and successor should be.
Have yo seen mi bonny Mary, Shoo lives at Skircoit Green; An old fowk say a fairer lass Nor her wor nivver seen. An th' young ens say shoo's th' sweetest flaar, 'At's bloomin thear to-day;...
The red sun stared unwinking at the East Then slept under a cloak of hodden gray; The rimy fields held the last light of day, A little tender yet. And I remember How black against the pale and wintry west...
When Summer on the earth was queen She held her court in gardens green Fair hung with tapestry of leaves, Where threads of gold the sun enweaves With checquered patterns on the floor...
The sunshine streaming through the stain'd glass Touched her with rosy colors as she stood, The maiden Queen of all the British realm, In the old Abbey on that soft June day....
That day--it was the last of many days, Nor could we know when such days might be given Again--we read how Dante trod the ways Of utmost Hell, and how his heart was riven...