When factious rage to cruel exile drove The queen of beauty,[1] and the court of love, The Muses droop'd, with their forsaken arts, And the sad Cupids broke their useless darts:...
O Patriot Statesman, be thou wise to know The limits of resistance, and the bounds Determining concession; still be bold Not only to slight praise but suffer scorn; And be thy heart a fortress to maintain...
Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray'd, Exploring every path of Ida's glade; Whom, still, affection taught me to defend, And made me less a tyrant than a friend,...
Because thou hast believ'd, the wheels of life Stand never idle, but go always round: Not by their hands, who vex the patient ground, Mov'd only; but by genius, in the strife...
Where can I find sufficient strength and force That could reverse the Dvina’s normal course, And speed me, pillowed on its swirling foam, Back to my native country, to my home?...
I will not Kneel in front of you, executioner, Even though I am your prisoner, I am a slave in your prison. When my time comes — I will die. But be aware: I will die standing up,...
Never my book's perfection did appear Till I had got the name of Villars here: Now 'tis so full that when therein I look I see a cloud of glory fills my book. Here stand it still to dignify our Muse,...
Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursued Thy pastime? when wast thou an egg new spawn'd, Lost in the immensity of ocean's waste? Roar as they might, the overbearing winds...
Farewell! The gold we send shall be a token Of that which in our hearts is growing strong; You asked our sympathy, and we have spoken, 'They wrong us who our brothers rob and wrong.' ...
Woe, woe to them, who, by a ball of strife, Do, and have parted here a man and wife: CHARLES the best husband, while MARIA strives To be, and is, the very best of wives,...
Here reading how fond Adam was betray'd, And how by sin Eve's blasted charms decay'd, Our common loss unjustly you complain, So small that part of it which you sustain. ...
When future ages shall with wonder view These glorious lines which Harley's daughter drew, They shall confess that Britain could not raise A fairer column to the father's praise.
To the leaven'd soil they trod, calling, I sing, for the last; (Not cities, nor man alone, nor war, nor the dead, But forth from my tent emerging for good, loosing, untying the tent-ropes;)...
By duty bound, and not by custome led To celebrate the praises of the dead, My mournfull mind, sore prest, in trembling verse Presents my Lamentations at his Herse, Who was my Father, Guide, Instructor too,...
And live I still to see relations gone, And yet survive to sound this wailing tone; Ah, woe is me, to write thy Funeral Song, Who might in reason yet have lived long,...