Where are those honours, IDA! once your own, When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne? As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, Hail'd a Barbarian in her C'sar's place,...
Why dost thou build the hall, Son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the desart comes: it howls in thy empty court.-OSSIAN. [1]
Through the cracks in these battlements loud the winds whistle, For the hall of my fathers is gone to decay; And in yon once gay garden the hemlock and thistle...
Here once engaged the stranger's view Young Friendship's record simply trac'd; Few were her words, - but yet, though few, Resentment's hand the line defac'd.
In this belov'd marble view Above the works and thoughts of Man, What Nature could but would not do, And Beauty and Canova can! Beyond Imagination's power, Beyond the Bard's defeated art,...
"Our Nation's foes lament on Fox's death, But bless the hour, when PITT resign'd his breath: These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue, We give the palm, where Justice points its due."
Oh! thou that roll'st above thy glorious Fire, Round as the shield which grac'd my godlike Sire, Whence are the beams, O Sun! thy endless blaze, Which far eclipse each minor Glory's rays?...
Why, Pigot, complain Of this damsel's disdain, Why thus in despair do you fret? For months you may try, Yet, believe me, a sigh Will never obtain a coquette.
'Twas now the noon of night, and all was still, Except a hapless Rhymer and his quill. In vain he calls each Muse in order down, Like other females, these will sometimes frown;...
Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind![1] Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art: For there thy habitation is the heart - The heart which love of thee alone can bind;...
A noble Lady of the Italian shore Lovely and young, herself a happy bride, Commands a verse, and will not be denied, From me a wandering Englishman; I tore One sonnet, but invoke the muse once more...
Tis done - and shivering in the gale The bark unfurls her snowy sail; And whistling o'er the bending mast, Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast; And I must from this land be gone,...
Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story - The days of our Youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.[604]...
The "good old times" - all times when old are good - Are gone; the present might be if they would; Great things have been, and are, and greater still Want little of mere mortals but their will:[dw]...