Faringdon Hill. Book II (Henry James Pye Poems)
The sultry hours are past, and Phobus nowSpreads yellower rays along the mountain's brow:The broken clouds unnumber'd tints display,Drinking the ...
The sultry hours are past, and Phobus nowSpreads yellower rays along the mountain's brow:The broken clouds unnumber'd tints display,Drinking the ...
So the son of Menoetius was attending to the hurt of Eurypyluswithin the tent, but the Argives and Trojans still ...
Beneath the fervour of the noon-tide beamAll Nature's works in placid stillness pause,--Save man, and his joint labourer the horse,The ...
A BalladLife seems wed to gaietyAs the dancers tread the measure.Each feels chosen speciallyFor the sacred vows to pleasure.Rosy cheeks ...
Hark! the whetstone raspsAlong the mower's scythe; for now's the timeTo reap the grassy mead,—-ere yet the beeInto the purple ...
What if we still carry shame on our forehead,Marks of the whip, signs of bondage abhorrent;What if remembrance of infamous ...
On Tampa's hights gray rose the battlements:A summer's day had gone out in the west;The conflagration in the elementsWas ended, ...
Yet to the wondrous St. Peter's, and yet to the solemn Rotunda, Mingling with heroes and gods, yet to the ...
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