A Widow Bird Sate Mourning For Her Love

A widow bird sate mourning for her LoveUpon a wintry bough;The frozen wind crept on above,The freezing stream below.There was no leaf upon the forest bare,No flower upon the ground,And little motion in the airExcept the mill-wheel's sound.

Feelings Of A Republican On The Fall Of Bonaparte

I hated thee, fallen tyrant! I did groanTo think that a most unambitious slave,Like thou, shouldst dance and revel on the graveOf Liberty. Thou mightst have built thy throneWhere it had stood even now: thou didst preferA frail and bloody pomp which Time has sweptIn fragments towards Oblivion. Massacre,For this I prayed, would on thy sleep have crept,Treason and Slavery, Rapine, Fear, and Lust,And

To Night

Swiftly walk over the western wave,Spirit of Night!Out of the misty eastern caveWhere, all the long and lone daylight,Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,Which make thee terrible and dear, --Swift be thy flight!Wrap thy form in a mantle grey,Star-inwrought!Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,Kiss her until she be wearied out,Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,Touching all with thine opiate

Asia: From Prometheus Unbound

My soul is an enchanted boat,Which, like a sleeping swan, doth floatUpon the silver waves of thy sweet singing;And thine doth like an angel sitBeside a helm conducting it,Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing.It seems to float ever, for ever,Upon that many-winding river,Between mountains, woods, abysses,A paradise of wildernesses!Till, like one in slumber bound,Borne to the ocean, I float

To Jane

The keen stars were twinkling,And the fair moon was rising among them,Dear Jane.The guitar was tinkling,But the notes were not sweet till you sung themAgain.As the moon's soft splendourO'er the faint cold starlight of HeavenIs thrown,So your voice most tenderTo the strings without soul had then givenIts own.The stars will awaken,Though the moon sleep a full hour laterTo-night;No leaf will be