Hail! Heavenly Maid, my pensive mind, Invokes thy woe-subduing strain; For there a shield my soul can find, Which subjugates each dagger'd pain. When beauty spurns the lover's sighs,...
Fair flower! that fall'n beneath the angry blast, Which marks with wither'd sweets its fearful way, I grieve to see thee on the low earth cast, While beauty's trembling tints fade fast away....
Fair flower! that fall'n beneath the angry blast, Which marks with wither'd sweets its fearful way, I grieve to see thee on the low earth cast, While beauty's trembling tints fade fast away....
Come long-lost blessing! heaven-lov'd seraph, haste, On pity's wings upborne, a world's wide woes Invoke thy smiles extatic, long effac'd, Beneath the tear which all corrosive flows;...
Say, why is the stern eye averted with scorn Of the stoic who passes along? And why frowns the maid, else as mild as the morn. On the victim of falsehood and wrong? ...
"Why, there's Peace, Jack, come damme let's push round the grog, And awhile altogether in good humor jog, For they say we shall soon go ashore; Where the anchor of friendship may drift or be lost,...
Come, thou blessed day of rest! Soother of the tortured breast, Wearied souls release from toil, Life's eternal sad turmoil; How I love thy tuneful bells Which a welcome story tells!...
Hail, lovely morn! and thou, all-beauteous sea! Sun-sparkling with the diamond's countless rays: Thy look, how tranquil, one eternal calm, Which seems to woo the troubled soul to peace!...
So stood the Sibyl: stream'd her hoary hair Wild as the blast, and with a comet's glare Glow'd her red eye-balls 'midst the sunken gloom Of their wild orbs, like death-fires in a tomb....
Say, dark prow'd visitant! that o'er the brine Stalk'st proudly--heeding not what wind may blow, What chart, what compass, shapes that course of thine, Whence didst thou come, and whither dost thou go? ...
Come away, come away, little fly! Don't disturb the sweet calm of love's nest: If you do, I protest you shall die, And your tomb be that beautiful breast.
Southey! high placed on the contested throne Of modern verse, a Muse, herself unknown, Sues that her tears may consecrate the strains Pour'd o'er the urn enrich'd with WHITE'S Remains!...
Mute Memory stands at Valour's awful shrine, In tears Britannia mourns her hero dead; A world's regret, brave ABERCROMBIE's thine, For nature sorrow'd as thy spirit fled! ...