Death poems
/ page 442 of 560 /Ode to Despair
© Mary Darby Robinson
TERRIFIC FIEND! thou Monster fell,
Condemn'd in haunts profane to dwell,
Why quit thy solitary Home,
O'er wide Creation's paths to roam?
Lines Written on the Sea-Coast
© Mary Darby Robinson
SWIFT o'er the bounding deep the VESSEL glides,
Its streamers flutt'ring in the summer gales,
The lofty mast the breezy air derides,
As gaily o'er the glitt'ring surf she sails.
Life
© Mary Darby Robinson
"What is this world?thy school, O misery!
"Our only lesson is to learn to suffer." - YOUNG.
LOVE, thou sportive fickle boy,
Source of anguish, child of joy,
Lewin and Gynneth
© Mary Darby Robinson
"WHEN will my troubled soul have rest?"
The beauteous LEWIN cried;
As thro' the murky shade of night
With frantic step she hied.
Golfre, Gothic Swiss Tale
© Mary Darby Robinson
Where freezing wastes of dazzl'ing Snow
O'er LEMAN'S Lake rose, tow'ring;
The BARON GOLFRE'S Castle strong
Was seen, the silv'ry peaks among,
With ramparts, darkly low'ring!--
Elegy to the Memory of Werter
© Mary Darby Robinson
Yes, hopeless suff'rer, friendless and forlorn,
Sweet victim of love's power; the silent tear
Shall oft at twilight's close, and glimm'ring morn
Gem the pale primrose that adorns thy bier,
And as the balmy dew ascends to heaven,
Thy crime shall steal away, thy frailty be forgiv'n.
Fridleif and Helga
© George Borrow
The woods were in leaf, and they cast a sweet shade;
Among them walk'd Helga, the beautiful maid.
Elegy to the Memory of Richard Boyle, Esq.
© Mary Darby Robinson
NEAR yon bleak mountain's dizzy height,
That hangs o'er AVON's silent wave;
By the pale Crescent's glimm'ring light,
I sought LORENZO's lonely grave.
Elegy to the Memory of David Garrick, Esq.
© Mary Darby Robinson
DEAR SHADE OF HIM, who grac'd the mimick scene,
And charm'd attention with resistless pow'r;
Whose wond'rous art, whose fascinating mien,
Gave glowing rapture to the short-liv'd hour!
Elegy on the Death of Lady Middleton
© Mary Darby Robinson
THE knell of death, that on the twilight gale,
Swells its deep murmur to the pensive ear;
In awful sounds repeats a mournful tale,
And claims the tribute of a tender tear.
To Mrs. Dulaney
© Frances Anne Kemble
What was thine errand here?
Thy beauty was more exquisite than aught
Edmund's Wedding
© Mary Darby Robinson
By the side of the brook, where the willow is waving
Why sits the wan Youth, in his wedding-suit gay!
Now sighing so deeply, now frantickly raving
Beneath the pale light of the moon's sickly ray.
Deborah's Parrot, a Village Tale
© Mary Darby Robinson
Thus, SLANDER turns against its maker;
And if this little Story reaches
A SPINSTER, who her PARROT teaches,
Let her a better task pursue,
And here, the certain VENGEANCE view
Which surely will, in TIME, O'ERTAKE HER.
Nightmare
© Gilbert Keith Chesterton
The silver and violet leopard of the night
Spotted with stars and smooth with silence sprang;
And though three doors stood open, the end of light
Closed like a trap; and stillness was a clang.
All Alone
© Mary Darby Robinson
Ah! wherefore by the Church-yard side,
Poor little LORN ONE, dost thou stray?
Thy wavy locks but thinly hide
The tears that dim thy blue-eye's ray;
And wherefore dost thou sigh, and moan,
And weep, that thou art left alone?
Ainsi Va le Monde
© Mary Darby Robinson
While motley mumm'ry holds her tinsel reign,
SHAKSPERE might write, and GARRICK act in vain:
True Wit recedes, when blushing Reason views
This spurious offspring of the banish'd Muse.
To Harriet -- It Is Not Blasphemy To Hope That Heaven
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
It is not blasphemy to hope that Heaven
More perfectly will give those nameless joys
Which throb within the pulses of the blood
And sweeten all that bitterness which Earth
Absence
© Mary Darby Robinson
WHEN from the craggy mountain's pathless steep,
Whose flinty brow hangs o'er the raging sea,
My wand'ring eye beholds the foamy deep,
I mark the restless surgeand think of THEE.
The Ring And The Book - Chapter VIII - Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis
© Robert Browning
(Virgil, now, should not be too difficult
To Cinoncino,say the early books . . .
Pen, truce to further gambols! Poscimur!)