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My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see,
Have a being less durable even than he.

William Cowper.


I KNEW by the smoke, that so gracefully curl'd

Above the green elms, that a cottage was near,
And I said, " if there's peace to be found in the world,

A heart that was humble might hope for it here!”
It was noon, and on flowers that languish'd around

In silence reposed the voluptuous bee;
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound

But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.
And, “here in this lone little wood," I exclaim'd,

" With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed,

How blest could I live, and how calm could I die!

"By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips

In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline,
And to know that I sigh’d upon innocent lips,
Which had never been sigh'd on by any but mine!”

Thomas Moore.



DEAR is my little native vale,

The ringdove builds and murmurs there ;
Close to my cot she tells her tale

To every passing villager.
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,

That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours

With my loved lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurel weave,
For those that win the race at eve.
The shepherd's horn at break of day,

The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay

Sung in the silent green-wood shade ;
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.

Samuel Rogers.


IF I had but two little wings,
And were a little feathery bird,

To you I'd fly, my dear!
But thoughts like these are idle things,

And I stay here.
But in my sleep to you I fly:
I'm always with you in my sleep,

The world is all one's own.
But then one wakes, and where am I?

All, all alone.
Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids :
So I love to wake ere break of day :

For tho' my sleep be gone,
Yet, while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,
And still dreams on.

Samuel T. Coleridge.



To Lady Throckmorton.
MARIA! I have every good

For thee wish'd many a time,
Both sad, and in a cheerful mood,

But never yet in rhyme.

To wish thee fairer is no need,

More prudent or more sprightly, Or more ingenious, or more freed

From temper-flaws unsightly.
What favour then not yet possess'd,

Can I for thee require,
In wedded love already bless'd

To thy whole heart's desire ?
None here is happy but in part :

Full bliss is bliss divine;
There dwells some wish in every heart,

And doubtless one in thine.
That wish, on some fair future day,

Which Fate shall brightly gild,
('Tis blameless, be it what it may)
I wish it all fulfill'd.

William Cowper.



'Tis not the lily brow I prize,
Nor roseate cheeks nor sunny eyes, –

Enough of lilies and of roses !
A thousand fold more dear to me

The look that gentle love discloses, That look which Love alone can see.

Samuel T. Coleridge.



WHEN maidens such as Hester die,
Their place we may not well supply,
Though we among a thousand try

With vain endeavour.
A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed

And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate

That flush'd her spirit :
I know not by what name beside
I shall it call; if 'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied

She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule
Which doth the human feeling cool;
But she was train'd in Nature's school,

Nature had blest her.
A waking eye, a prying mind,
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ;
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,

Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbour! gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet, as heretofore

Some summer morning-
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet fore-warning ?

Charles Lamb.


My Lilla gave me yestermorn
A rose, methinks in Eden born,
And as she gave it, little elf !
She blush'd like any rose herself.
Then said I, full of tenderness,

“ Since this sweet rose I owe to you,
Dear girl, why may I not possess
The lovelier Rose that gave it too ?”




MARGARET's beauteous_Grecian arts

Ne'er drew form completer, Yet why, in my heart of hearts,

Hold I Dora's sweeter ?

Dora's eyes of heavenly blue

Pass all paintings' reach,
Ringdove's notes are discord to

The music of her speech.
Artists ! Margaret's smile receive,

And on canvas show it ;
But for perfect worship leave
Dora to her poet.

Thomas Campbell.


IN Clementina's artless mien,

Lucilla asks me what I see, And are the roses of sixteen

Enough for me?

Lucilla asks, if that be all,

Have I not cull'd as sweet before Ah, yes, Lucilla ! and their fall

I still deplore. I now behold another scene,

Where Pleasure beams with heaven's own light, More pure, more constant, more serene,

And not less bright.

Faith on whose breast the Loves repose,

Whose chain of flowers no force can sever, And Modesty, who when she goes,

Is gone for ever.

Walter Savage Landor.

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