The Painter Of Florence (Ernest Jones Poems)
THERE'S a mansion old 'mid the hills of the west,So old, that men know not by whom it was built;But ...
THERE'S a mansion old 'mid the hills of the west,So old, that men know not by whom it was built;But ...
I. LINDSAY castle's jutted forth On the wild, old sounding sea,And a gallant race of the hardy North, ...
AMID the bright'ning glories of the earth,I watched a humble floweret from its birth;'Twas a pale blossom and a simple ...
The nations are all calling To and fro, from strand to strand;Uniting in one army The slaves of ...
In a cottage on a moor Famine's feeble children cried;The frost knocked sharply at the door, And hunger ...
LEAWOOD HALL,A Chistmas Tale. IN a cottage on a moor Famine's feeble children cried;The frost knocked sharply at the ...
TO MY READERS,-MY Life has been a wild, strange life,Now lulled in love-now wrapt in strife;I've had my dreams as ...
The wind! the wind plays o'er the prison-bar, Still fresh from kissing the green forest-leaves;Rending the wheat-fields in the ...
A CHILD of the hard-hearted world was I, And a worldling callous of heart,And eager to play with the ...
DARKNESS on the endless sea; A wild, wild wailing cry;And the sun came down-like a ...
A Legend of Windsor A song for the Queen! our gracious Queen, Who giveth her subjects bread!Paupers! throw up ...
Down the hillside tripping brightly, O'er the pebbles tinkling lightly,'Mid the meadows rippling merrily, the mountain- ...
THE midnight hour is passing-the sunrise is at handThe watchers on the mountain tops are looking o'er the land,The world ...
FORTH to the fight! then shining sword of song! Sing, sing the toil, that makes the toiler strong. Sing, how ...
LABOUR! Labour! Labour!-Toil! Toil! Toil! With the wearing of the bone and the drowning of ...
WHY groaning so, thou solid Earth! Tho' sprightly summer cheers?Or is thine old heart dead to mirth? Or ...
To love, and to love hopelessly, It is a bitter lot!Not the idle I love that partsLight as it ...
Written in the prison Infirmary, February, 1850. To a quiet land I'm steering; Steering ever, day and night;A sailor-wreck ...
Labour! labour! labour! toil! toil! toil! With the wearing of the bone and the drowning of the mind;Sink like ...
In the morning's light advancing, Forward bounds a gallant steed,Deck'd with Beauty's goodly housing, Shod with Youth, Health, ...
SHARPEN the sickle! The fields are white, 'Tis the time of the harvest at last;Reapers! be up with the ...
Written in the Infirmary of Westminster Prison, when notexpecting to recover, March, 1850. Behold! unto my death bed sent, ...
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