A few have borne me honour in my day A flirt was Belinda! the more she reproved A friendship never bears uncanker'd fruit Again, my soul, sustain the mournful page! Against the frauds of France did Europe rise A gardener had watcht a mole A generous action may atone A good old Englishwoman, who had come Ah! do not drive off grief, but place your hand. Ah, Southey, how we stumble on thro' life Ah wherefore should you so admire Ah, yes! the hour is come. Alas, how soon the hours are over Alas! 'tis very sad to hear. Alfieri, thou art present in my sight All is not over while the shade Altho' thou lovest much to sit alone, Altho' with Earth and Heaven you deal A man there sate, not old, but weak and worn A provident and wakeful fear A scholar was about to marry A sentimental lady sate Askest thou if in my youth I have mounted, as others have mounted, A sparrow was thy emblem, O Catullus As round the parting ray the busy motes A still, serene, soft day; enough of sun A time will come when absence, grief, and years, At Rome may everything be bought. Aurelius, Sire of Hungrinesses! . A voice I heard, and hear it yet, A voice in sleep hung over me, and said Avon that never thirsts, nor toils along, Away my verse; and never fear. B. Barbarians must we always be? 275 Beautiful spoils! borne off from vanquisht death! 178 77 107 Blythe bell, that calls to bridal halls, . Boastfully call we all the world our own: Borgia, thou once wert almost too august Borne on white horses, which the God of Thrace Both men and poets of the Saxon race By learned men was England led Carey! I fear the fruits are scanty Catch her and hold her if you can Censured by her who stands above Changarnier and a poet with a De Changeful! how little do you know Chaucer I fancied had been dead. Chaucer, O how I wish thou wert Child of a day, thou knowest not Children, be not too proud, altho' the man Children, keep up that harmless play; "Children of Pallas!" is the voice that swells Children! while childhood lasts, one day Children! why pull ye one another's hair? Clap, clap the double nightcap on! Clifton! in vain thy varied scenes invite, |