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Număr de rezultate: 33


To M. S. G. / When I Dream That You Love

When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive

To M.

Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair

To Lesbia

Lesbia! since far from you I’ve ranged,
Our souls with fond affection glow not

Love’s Last Adieu

The roses of Love glad the garden of life,
Though nurtur’d ‘mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
Or prunes them for ever, in Love’s last adieu!
In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart,
In vain do we vow for an age to be true

When I Roved A Young Highlander

When I roved a young Highlander o’er the dark heath,
And climb’d thy steep sumrnit, oh Morven of snow!
To gaze on the torrent that thunder’d beneath,
Or the mist of the tempest that gather’d below,
Untutor’d by science, a stranger to fear,
And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew,
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear
Need I say, my sweet Mary, ’twas centred in you?
Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name,-
What passion can dwell in the heart of a child?
But still I pereceive an emotion the same
As I felt, when a boy, on the crag cover’d wild:
One image alone on my bosom impress’d
I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new

All is Vanity, Saith the Preacher

Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine,
And health and youth possess’d me


Thou whose spell can raise the dead,
Bid the prophet's form appear.
'Samuel, raise thy buried head!
King, behold the phantom seer!'
Earth yawn'd

Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte

'Tis done—but yesterday a King!
⁠And armed with Kings to strive—
And now thou art a nameless thing:
⁠So abject—yet alive!
Is this the man of thousand thrones,
Who strewed our earth with hostile bones,
⁠And can he thus survive?
Since he, miscalled the Morning Star,
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.
Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind
⁠Who bowed so low the knee?
By gazing on thyself grown blind,
⁠Thou taught'st the rest to see.
With might unquestioned,—power to save,—
Thine only gift hath been the grave
⁠To those that worshipped thee

Lines Written in an Album at Malta

As o’er the cold sepulchral stone
Some name arrests the passer-by

Song For The Luddites

As the Liberty lads o’er the sea
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood,
So we, boys, we
Will die fighting, or live free,
And down with all kings but King Ludd!
When the web that we weave is complete,
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword,
We will fling the winding sheet
O’er the despot at our feet,
And dye it deep in the gore he has pour’d.
Though black as his heart its hue,
Since his veins are corrupted to mud,
Yet this is the dew
Which the tree shall renew
Of Liberty, planted by Ludd!


Hours of Idleness

On a distant view of the Village and School of Harrow on the Hill
Oh! mihi præteritos referat si Jupiter annos.
Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov'd recollection,
Embitters the present, compar'd with the past

To Mary, On Receiving Her Picture

This faint resemblance of thy charms,
(Though strong as mortal art could give,)
My constant heart of fear disarms,
Revives my hopes, and bids me live.
Here, I can trace the locks of gold
Which round thy snowy forehead wave

Epitaph On John Adams, Of Southwell

- A Carrier, Who Died Of Drunkenness -
John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell,
A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well:
He carried so much, and he carried so fast,
He could carry no more‑so was carried at last

Epitaph For William Pitt

With death doom’d to grapple,
Beneath this cold slab, he
Who lied in the Chapel
Now lies in the Abbey.


Epigram, on the Braziers’ Company Having Resolved to Present an Address to Queen Caroline

The braziers, it seems, are preparing to pass
An address, and present it themselves all in brass,—
A superfluous pageant-for, by the Lord Harry!
They’ll find where they’re going much more than they carry.


For Music

There be none of Beauty’s daughters
With a magic like thee


Titan! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise

Lines to a Lady Weeping

Weep, Daughter of a royal line,
A Sire’s disgrace, a realm’s decay

Windsor Poetics:

Lines Composed on the Occasion of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent
Being Seen Standing Between the Coffins of Henry Viii
and Charles I, in the Royal Vault at Windsor
Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies

Ode (From the French)

We do not curse thee, Waterloo!
Though Freedom’s blood thy plain bedew

Lines Addressed To The Rev. J. T. Becher

-On His Advising The Author To Mix More With Society-
Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind

Lachin Y Gair (Dark Lochnagar)

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses !
In you let the minions of luxury rove,
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love.
Yet Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements war,
Though cataracts foam ‘stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.
Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wander’d,
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid.
On chieftains long perish’d my memory ponder’d
As daily I strode through the pine-cover’d glade.
I sought not my home till the day’s dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star,
For fancy was cheer’d by traditional story
Disclos’d by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.
Shades of the dead ! Have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale ?
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind o’er his own Highland vale.
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car.
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers

I would I were a careless child

I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave

To Romance

Parent of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious Queen of childish joys,
Who lead’st along, in airy dance,
Thy votive train of girls and boys

Well! thou art happy, and I feel

Well! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too

To a Lady, on Being Asked my Reasons for Quitting England in the Spring

When Man, expell’d from Eden’s bowers,
A moment linger’d near the gate,
Each scene recall’d the vanish’d hours,
And bade him curse his future fate.
But, wandering on through distant climes,
He learnt to bear his load of grief

From Don Juan ( Canto I, 200-203)

My Poem’s Epic, and is meant to be
Divided in twelve books

From “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”, Canto III, CXIII-CXIVI

I have not loved the world, nor the world me

From Don Juan ( Canto I, 216-217)

My days of Love are over

From “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”, Canto the First, I

Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,
Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel's will!
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:
Yet there I've wandered by thy vaunted rill

From “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”, Canto the First, XV-XVI

Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!
What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree!
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand!
But man would mar them with an impious hand:
And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge
'Gainst those who most transgress his high command,
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge
Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge.
What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold!
Her image floating on that noble tide,
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold,
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied,
And to the Lusians did her aid afford
A nation swoll'n with ignorance and pride,
Who lick, yet loathe, the hand that waves the sword.
To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord.


The dying gladiator

I see before me the gladiator lie1:
He leans upon his hand