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Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port,
Ah! ken ye what I met the day
Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes,
'Tis the witching hour of night,
Give me your patience, sister, while I frame
When they were come into Faery's Court
Dark eyes are dearer far
Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl!
There was one Mrs. Cameron of 50 years of age and the fattest woman in all Inverness-shire who got up this Mountain some few years ago, true she had her servants, but then she had her self. She ought to have hired Sisyphus,, "Up the high hill he h
Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake;
Over the hill and over the dale,
Glory and loveliness have pass'd away;
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
O Sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm!
There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men
Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!
Dear Reynolds, as last night I lay in bed,
Full many a dreary hour have I past,
O! were I one of the Olympian twelve,
Ever let the Fancy roam,
Fill for me a brimming bowl
To-night I'll have my friar, let me think
Mother of Hermes! and still youthful Maia!
And what is love? It is a doll dress'd up
"Under the flag
Where's the Poet? show him! show him,
Give me women, wine, and snuff
Hither hither, love
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Just at the self-same beat of Time's wide wings
Thus in altemate uproar and sad peace,
I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,
Now Morning from her orient chamber came,
Chief of organic Numbers!
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What can I do to drive away
There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain,
Bards of Passion and of Mirth,
Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
Bards of Passion and of Mirth,
As Hermes once took to his feathers light
Of late two dainties were before me plac'd
Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem
The town, the churchyard, and the setting sun,
To A Friend
As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete
Fire, Air, Earth, and Water,
I had a dove, and the sweet dove died;
Spirit here that reignest!
Many the wonders I this day have seen:
Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs
What though, for showing truth to flatter'd state,
How many bards gild the lapses of time!
Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there
Byron! how sweetly sad thy melody!
O Chatterton! how very sad thy fate!
Brother belov'd if health shall smile again,
Standing aloof in giant ignorance,
O that a week could be an age, and we
Cat! who hast pass'd thy grand climacteric,
O soft embalmer of the still midnight!
Spenser! a jealous honourer of thine,
Son of the old Moon-mountains African!
As late I rambled in the happy fields,
Nymph of the downward smile and sidelong glance!
O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell,
Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals,
To one who has been long in city pent,
Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
High-mindedness, a jealousy for good,
Great spirits now on earth are sojourning;
The poetry of earth is never dead:
Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone
Happy is England! I could be content
As Hermes once took to his feathers light,
After dark vapors have oppress'd our plains
As from the darkening gloom a silver dove
If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd,
Oh! how I love, on a fair summer's eve,
Come hither all sweet Maidens soberly
Who loves to peer up at the morning sun,
It keeps eternal whisperings around
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb,
Fresh morning gusts have blown away all fear
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Why did I laugh to-night? No voice will tell
O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute!
Blue! 'Tis the life of heaven, the domain
The church bells toll a melancholy round,
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art
This pleasant tale is like a little copse:
Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud
Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;
In after-time, a sage of mickle lore
Not Aladdin magian
O come Georgiana! the rose is full blown,
In drear-nighted December,
Where be ye going, you Devon maid?
Upon a Sabbath-day it fell;
All gentle folks who owe a grudge
This living hand, now warm and capable
Hadst thou liv'd in days of old,
Think not of it, sweet one, so;
Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid!
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,
I cry your mercy, pity, love! aye, love!
Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,
When by my solitary hearth I sit,
What though while the wonders of nature exploring,
Nature withheld Cassandra in the skies
Two or three Posies
O thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind,
Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain,
This mortal body of a thousand days