Hermotimus (William Edmondstoune Aytoun Poems)
I.'Wilt not lay thee down in quiet slumber?Weary dost thou seem, and ill at rest;Sleep will bring thee dreams in ...
I.'Wilt not lay thee down in quiet slumber?Weary dost thou seem, and ill at rest;Sleep will bring thee dreams in ...
The infant april joins the springAnd views its watery skyeAs youngling linnet trys its wingAnd fears at first to flyeWith ...
They hear Thee not, O God! nor see;Beneath Thy rod they mock at Thee;The princes of our ancient lineLie drunken ...
Morn rose upon the purple hills,In all his pomp display'd;Flash'd forth like stars a hundred rills,In valley, plain, and glade.The ...
Here is the place where Loveliness keeps house,Between the river and the wooded hills,Within a valley where the Springtime spillsHer ...
Love, lift me up upon thy golden wingsFrom this base world unto thy heavens hight,Where I may see those admirable ...
It was a little grave—So little, you could almost think the sextonHad, in his weary labour, left a sod—A single ...
Ah, it was here--September And silence filled the air-- I came last year to remember, And muse, ...
I myself saw furious with bloodNeoptolemus, at his side the black Atridae,Hecuba and the hundred daughters, PriamCut down, his filth ...
The halt is over : Spring again resumes Its great procession out of icebound caves, O'er which held watch the ...
Old Yew, which graspest at the stones That name the under-lying dead, Thy fibres ...
O Sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm! All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm, And shadowy, through ...
(E. L. G.) BENEATH a knap where flown Nestlings play, Within walls of weathered stone, Far away From the files ...
Ask me why I send you here The firstling of the infant year; Ask me why I send to you ...
O LUVE will venture in where it daur na weel be seen, O luve will venture in where wisdom ance ...
I. He was a Grecian lad, who coming home With pulpy figs and wine from Sicily Stood at his galley's ...
Old Yew, which graspest at the stones That name the under-lying dead, Thy fibres net the dreamless head, Thy roots ...
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