Old soldier! old soldier! the beams of the day, That shone on thy sabre, have long passed away, And thy sun is gone down, and thy few hairs are gray, Old soldier! ...
Frown ever opposite, the angel cried, Who, with an earthquake's might and giant hand, Severed these riven rocks, and bade them stand Severed for ever! The vast ocean-tide,...
Oh, who would keep a little bird confined, When cowslip bells are nodding in the wind; When every hedge as with "good morrow" rings, And, heard from wood to coombe, the blackbird sings!...
If chance some pensive stranger, hither led, His bosom glowing from majestic views, Temple and tower 'mid the bright landscape's hues, Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed?...
Luke Andrews is transported! Never more To see his sisters, mother, or the shore Of his own country! Never more to see The cottage smoke rise o'er the sheltering tree; Never again beneath the morning beam,...
Faint-gazing on the burning orb of day, When Afric's injured son expiring lay, His forehead cold, his labouring bosom bare, His dewy temples, and his sable hair, His poor companions kissed, and cried aloud,...
Pomp of Egypt's elder day, Shade of the mighty passed away, Whose giant works still frown sublime 'Mid the twilight shades of Time; Fanes, of sculpture vast and rude, That strew the sandy solitude,...
Spirit of Death! whose outstretched pennons dread Wave o'er the world beneath their shadow spread; Who darkly speedest on thy destined way, Midst shrieks and cries, and sounds of dire dismay;...
When evening listened to the dipping oar, Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar, By the green banks, where Thames, with conscious pride, Reflects that stately structure on his side, ...
Sweet bard, whose tones great Milton might approve, And Shakspeare, from high Fancy's sphere, Turning to the sound his ear, Bend down a look of sympathy and love; Oh, swell the lyre again,...
It was a high and holy sight, When Baldwin[2] and his train, With cross and crosier gleaming bright, Came chanting slow the solemn rite, To Gwentland's[3] pleasant plain. ...
High on the hill, with moss o'ergrown, A hermit chapel stood; It spoke the tale of seasons gone, And half-revealed its ivied stone. Amid the beechen wood.