#English #Romanticism #XIXCentury
Oh, Mariamne! now for thee The heart of which thou bled’st is… Revenge is lost in agony, And wild remorse to rage succeedin… Oh, Mariamne! where art thou?
There is a tear for all that die, A mourner o’er the humblest grave; But nations swell the funeral cry, And Triumph weeps above the brave… For them is Sorrow’s purest sigh
LIV But now I will begin my poem. 'Ti… Perhaps a little strange, if not q… That from the first of Cantos up… I’ve not begun what we have to go…
WARRIORS and chiefs! should th… Pierce me in leading the host of t… Heed not the corse, though a king’… Bury your steel in the bosoms of… Thou who art bearing my buckler an…
When Newton saw an apple fall, he… In that slight startle from his co… 'Tis said (for I 'll not answer a… For any sage’s creed or calculatio… A mode of proving that the earth t…
I want a hero: an uncommon want, When every year and month sends fo… Till, after cloying the gazettes w… The age discovers he is not the tr… Of such as these I should not car…
Ambition was my idol, which was br… Before the shrines of Sorrow and… And the two last have left me many… O’er which reflection may be made… Now, like Friar Bacon’s brazen he…
Who killed John Keats? “I,” says the Quarterly, So savage and Tartarly; “Twas one of my feats.” Who shot the arrow?
Good plays are scarce: So Moore writes farce. The poet’s fame grows brittle— We knew before That Little’s Moore,
'O’er the glad waters of the dark… Our thoughts as boundless, and our… Far as the breeze can bear, the bi… Survey our empire, and behold our… These are our realms, no limits to…
When amatory poets sing their love… In liquid lines mellifluously blan… And pair their rhymes as Venus yo… They little think what mischief is… The greater their success the wors…
‘I cannot but remember such things… And were most dear to me.’ WHEN slow Disease, with all her… Chills the warm, tide which flows… When Health, affrighted, spreads…
'I had rather be a kitten, and cry… Than one of these same metre balla… ‘Such shameless bards we have; and… There are as mad, abandon’d critic… Still must I hear?—shall hoarse F…
The spell is broke; the charm is f… Thus is it with life’s fitful feve… We madly smile when we should groa… Delirium is our best deceiver. Each lucid interval of thought
Let Folly smile, to view the name… Of thee and me in friendship twine… Yet Virtue will have greater clai… To love, than rank with vice combi… And though unequal is thy fate,