While yet the world was young, and men were few, Nor lurking fraud, nor tyrant rapine knew, In virtue rude, the gaudy arts they scorn'd, Which, virtue lost, degenerate times adorn'd:...
Thou, who the verdant plain dost traverse here While Thames among his willows from thy view Retires; O stranger, stay thee, and the scene Around contemplate well. This is the place...
Such was old Chaucer. such the placid mien Of him who first with harmony inform'd The language of our fathers. Here he dwelt For many a cheerful day. these ancient walls...
How thick the shades of evening close! How pale the sky with weight of snows! Haste, light the tapers, urge the fire, And bid the joyless day retire. Alas, in vain I try within...
O rustic herald of the spring, At length in yonder woody vale Fast by the brook i hear thee sing; And, studious of thy homely tale, Amid the vespers of the grove, Amid the chanting choir of love,...
How oft shall i survey This humble roof, the lawn, the greenwood shade, The vale with sheaves o'erspread, The glassy brook, the flocks which round thee stray? When will thy cheerful mind...
Thrice hath the spring beheld thy faded fame Since I exulting grasp'd the tuneful shell: Eager through endless years to sound thy name, Proud that my memory with thine should dwell....
Thou, heedless Albion, what, alas, the while Dost thou presume? O inexpert in arms, Yet vain of freedom, how dost thou beguile, With dreams of hope, these near and loud alarms?...
Thy verdant scenes, O Goulder's hill, Once more I seek, a languid guest: With throbbing temples and with burden'd breast Once more I climb thy steep aerial way. O faithful cure of oft-returning ill,...
Away! away! Tempt me no more, insidious Love: Thy soothing sway Long did my youthful bosom prove: At length thy treason is discern'd, At length some dear-bought caution earn'd:...
With sordid floods the wintry Urn Hath stain'd fair Richmond's level green: Her naked hill the Dryads mourn, No longer a poetic scene. No longer there thy raptur'd eye...
From pompous life's dull masquerade, From Pride's pursuits, and Passion's war, Far, my Cordelia, very far, To thee and me may Heaven assign The silent pleasures of the shade,...
Whither is Europe's ancient spirit fled? Where are those valiant tenants of her shore, Who from the warrior bow the strong dart sped, Or with firm hand the rapid pole-ax bore?...
Say, Townshend, what can London boast To pay thee for the pleasures lost, The health to-day resign'd, When spring from this her favorite seat Bade winter hasten his retreat, And met the western wind....
Attend to Chaulieu's wanton lyre; While, fluent as the sky-lark sings When first the morn allures it's wings, The epicure his theme pursues: And tell me if, among the choir...