#English #Romanticism #XIXCentury
MY faint spirit was sitting in th… Of thy looks, my love; It panted for thee like the hin… For the brooks, my love. Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the…
Ah! grasp the dire dagger and couc… If vengeance and death to thy boso… The dastard shall perish, death’s… For fate and revenge are decreed f… Ah! where is the hero, whose nerve…
Night, with all thine eyes look do… Darkness shed its holiest dew! When ever smiled the inconstant mo… On a pair so true? Hence, coy hour! and quench thy li…
One word is too often profaned For me to profane it; One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it; One hope is too like despair
Thou art fair, and few are fairer Of the Nymphs of earth or ocean; They are robes that fit the wearer… Those soft limbs of thine, whose m… Ever falls and shifts and glances
I rode one evening with Count Mad… Upon the bank of land which breaks… Of Adria towards Venice: a bare s… Of hillocks, heap’d from ever-shif… Matted with thistles and amphibiou…
Pan loved his neighbour Echo—but… Of Earth and Air pined for the S… The Satyr loved with wasting madn… The bright nymph Lyda,—and so thr… As Pan loved Echo, Echo loved th…
Like the ghost of a dear friend de… Is Time long past. A tone which is now forever fled, A hope which is now forever past, A love so sweet it could not last,
Thou living light that in thy rain… Clothest this naked world; and ove… And Earth and air, and all the sh… In peopled darkness of this wondro… The Spirit of thy glory dost diff…
Ye wild-eyed Muses, sing the Twin… Whom the fair-ankled Leda, mixed… With mighty Saturn’s Heaven-obs… On Taygetus, that lofty mountain… Brought forth in joy: mild Pollux…
Oh! did you observe the Black Can… And did you observe his frown? He goeth to say the midnight mass, In holy St. Edmond’s town. He goeth to sing the burial chaunt…
I stood upon a heaven-cleaving tur… Which overlooked a wide Metropoli… And in the temple of my heart my… Lay prostrate, and with parted lip… The dust of Desolations [altar] h…
DRAMATIS PERSONÃ Count Francesco Cenci. Giacomo, his Son. Bernardo, his Son. Cardinal Camillo.
They die—the dead return not—Mise… Sits near an open grave and calls… A Youth with hoary hair and hagga… They are the names of kindred, fri… Which he so feebly calls—they all…
And like a dying lady, lean and pa… Who totters forth, wrapped in a ga… Out of her chamber, led by the ins… And feeble wanderings of her fadin… The moon arose up in the murky eas…
