Works

In depth of loneliest wood, amid the din
Of midnight storm and thunder, spoke Despair,
While Horror, shuddering, heard that voice alone.
Oh! load of guilt! relentless misery!...

Cease, daubers! profane not the theme, I implore ye!
But leave him, O leave him alone with his glory!

* * * * *

Man's owl-eyed reason Popish Priests assert...

'Should you e'er be unwell, send directly for me;
To cure you I'll haste with all possible speed,
Prescribe and find medicine without any fee.'
Oh! Doctor! your offer's most generous indeed;...

Thou able, boaster! Virgil to translate!
Can'st thou, then, be so vain, so shallow-pated?
To a far higher intellectual state,
Coxcomb! thou must, thyself, be first translated.

* * * * *...

May European Liberty
In Moscow's flames her torch relume!
And Gallic Tyranny
In Moscow's ruins find a tomb!

* * * * *

Locke says the soul may slumber;...

Henceforth at miracles who'll dare to mock?
No wonder Orpheus' lyre could move the brutes,
Or Moses' rod strike water from the rock;
Lo! Shakspeare's genius melts the heart of Nutes,...

The labourers in the vineyard toil
(So numerous are their creeds)
Far less to cultivate the soil,
Than break each others' heads.

* * * * *
...

'March on! march swiftly on!' the people cry,
Let us pursue Truth, Knowledge, Liberty!
March not so fast, my friends! or you will find,
That, in your haste, you've left them all behind.
...

Too long within the House has darkness dwelt,
Egyptian darkness, by the nation felt;
Therefore, though demagogues, whose deeds are ill,
For blind debate might love that darkness still,...

Bury, for practice bold and skill
Deserves to be of note;
He cures by means that well might kill,
He cuts his patient's throat!

* * * * *
...

(Supposed To Be Written Near His Tomb.)

Milton!
the name of that divinest Bard
Acts on Imagination like a charm
Of holiest power; with deep, religious awe...

(Supposed To Be Written By Miss B***, His Sister.)

At God's command the vital spirit fled,
And thou, my Brother! slumber'st with the dead.
Alas! how art thou changed! I scarcely dare...

What adverse passions rule my changeful breast,
With hope exalted, or by fear deprest!
Now, by the Muse inspired, I snatch the lyre,
And proudly to poetic fame aspire;...

What fine aerial Shape,
In orient colours dight,
Springs from the world unknown
Upon my wondering sight?

Loosely through various space
The lovely Figure flows,
And leaves the sleeping air...

Again has Time his annual circle run,
And April ushers in my natal day:
Since first my infant eyes beheld the sun,
How many a year has swiftly roll'd away!
Full half my thread of life the Fates have spun;...