"Where art thou wandering, little child?" I said to one I met to-day-- She push'd her bonnet up and smil'd, "I'm going upon the green to play: Folks tell me that the May's in flower,...
You say you're glad I write - oh, say not so! My fount of song, dear friend, 's a bitter well; And when the numbers freely from it flow, 'Tis that my heart, and eyes, o'erflow as well. ...
'Twas but for a moment--and yet in that time She crowded the impressions of many an hour: Her eye had a glow, like the sun of her clime, Which waked every feeling at once into flower. ...
How like is childhood to the lucid tide That calmly wanders thro' the mossy dell, Sweeps o'er the lily by the margin's side, And, as it kisses, murmurs out, Farewell!
Sir W. Bovill was specially retained in an action for damages caused by the overflowing of the banks of the Witham. With great spirit he contended that the river had for three days flowed from the sea. ...
By Beauty's caresses, like Cupid, half-spoil'd, Thus Music's and Poesy's favourite child Exclaim'd, - "'Tis, by Heaven! a terrible thing Before a he-party to sit and to sing!"...
The sign of the house should be chang'd, I'll be sworn, Where enchanted we find so much beauty and grace; Then quick from the door let the lion be torn, And an angel expand her white wings in his place.
Old Winter, with his frosty beard, Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd, What have I done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe? My cheerless suns no pleasure know;...
When from your gems of thought I turn To those pure orbs, your heart to learn, I scarce know which to prize most high, The bright i-dea, or the bright dear-eye.
In vain you boast Poetic Names of yore, And cite those Sapho's we admire no more: Fate doom'd the Fall of ev'ry Female Wit, But doom'd it then when first Ardelia writ. Of all Examples by the World confest,...
Whilst, in a dress that one might swear The whole was made of woven air, Pert Fashion spreads her senseless sway Over the giddy and the gay (Who think, by showing all their charms,...
Lady! who didst--with angel-look and smile, And the sweet lustre of those dear, dark eyes, Gracefully bend before the font of Christ, In humble adoration, faith, and prayer!...
Between Adam and me the great difference is, Tho' a paradise each has been forced to resign, That he never wore breeches, till turned out of his, While for want of my breeches, I'm banisht from mine.
Along the avenue I pass Huge piles of wood and stone, And glance at each amorphous mass, Whose cumbrous weight has crushed the grass, With half resentful groan.