"The longer one lives, the more one learns," Said I, as off to sleep I went, Bemused with thinking of Tithe concerns, And reading a book by the Bishop of FERNS,[1]...
Angel of Charity, who, from above, Comest to dwell a pilgrim here, Thy voice is music, thy smile is love, And Pity's soul is in thy tear. When on the shrine of God were laid...
As down in the sunless retreats of the Ocean, Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see, So, deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion, Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee,...
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air,...
Bring the bright garlands hither, Ere yet a leaf is dying; If so soon they must wither. Ours be their last sweet sighing. Hark, that low dismal chime! 'Tis the dreary voice of Time....
Come not, oh LORD, in the dread robe of splendor Thou worest on the Mount, in the day of thine ire; Come veiled in those shadows, deep, awful, but tender, Which Mercy flings over thy features of fire! ...
Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,[1] When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!...
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,...
Though sorrow long has worn my heart; Though every day I've, counted o'er Hath brought a new and, quickening smart To wounds that rankled fresh before;
Said his Highness to Ned,[1] with that grim face of his, "Why refuse us the Veto, dear Catholic Neddy?" "Because, Sir," said Ned, looking full in his phiz, "You're forbidding enough, in all conscience, already!"
"I want the Court Guide," said my lady, "to look "If the House, Seymour Place, be at 30. or 20."-- "We've lost the Court Guide, Ma'am, but here's the Red Book....
Dear John, as I know, like our brother of London, You've sipt of all knowledge, both sacred and mundane, No doubt, in some ancient Joe Miller, you've read What Cato, that cunning old Roman, once said--...
Where Kings have been by mob-elections Raised to the throne, 'tis strange to see What different and what odd perfections Men have required in Royalty....
I've had a dream that bodes no good Unto the Holy Brotherhood. I may be wrong, but I confess-- As far as it is right or lawful For one, no conjurer, to guess-- It seems to me extremely awful. ...
Of all that, to the sage's survey, This world presents of topsy-turvy, There's naught so much disturbs one's patience, As little minds in lofty stations....