Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.
Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom, On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year.
My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea.
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.
So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!
No more we meet in yonder bowers Absence has made me prone to roving; But older, firmer hearts than ours, Have found monotony in loving.
Muse of the many twinkling feet, whose charms are now extending up from legs to arms.
Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep From leaf to leaf.
Here lies interred in the eternity of the past, from whence there is no resurrection for the days - whatever there may be for the dust - the thirty-third year of an ill-spent life, which, after a lingering disease of many months sank into a lethargy, and expired, January 22d, 1821, A.D. leaving a successor inconsolable for the very loss which occasioned its existence.
I should like to know who has been carried off, except poor dear me - I have been more ravished myself than anybody since the Trojan war.
Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer.
Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains; They crown'd him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.
The 'good old times' - all times when old are good.
Her great merit is finding out mine; there is nothing so amiable as discernment.
There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in, Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.
It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment - but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?
There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave.
There's music in the sighing of a reed; There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if men had ears; The earth is but the music of the spheres.
Sorrow preys upon Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it From its sad visions of the other world Than calling it at moments back to this. The busy have no time for tears.
Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by features Are brought up, others by a warlike leader; Some by a place--as tend their years or natures; The most by ready cash--but all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.
He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.
Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs.
In itself a thought, a slumbering thought is capable of years; and curdles a long life into one hour.
I see before me the gladiator lie.
But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.
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