Music poems
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The Shepherd's Week : Tuesday; or, the Ditty
© John Gay
Marian.
Young Colin Clout, a lad of peerless meed,
Fragment
© Frances Anne Kemble
FROM AN EPISTLE WRITTEN WHEN THE THERMOMETER STOOD AT 98° IN THE SHADE.
Solomon on the Vanity of the World, A Poem. In Three Books. - Power. Book III.
© Matthew Prior
Come then, my soul: I call thee by that name,
Thou busy thing, from whence I know I am;
For, knowing that I am, I know thou art,
Since that must needs exist which can impart:
But how thou camest to be, or whence thy spring,
For various of thee priests and poets sing.
The Hills
© Madison Julius Cawein
There is no joy of earth that thrills
My bosom like the far-off hills!
Elegy On The Death Of Mr. Phillips
© Thomas Chatterton
No more I hail the morning's golden gleam,
No more the wonders of the view I sing;
Friendship requires a melancholy theme,
At her command the awful lyre I string!
The Rosciad
© Charles Churchill
Unknowing and unknown, the hardy Muse
Boldly defies all mean and partial views;
With honest freedom plays the critic's part,
And praises, as she censures, from the heart.
Hymn II. Wake my Soul, rise from this Bed
© John Austin
Wake my Soul, rise from this Bed
Of dull and sluggish earth:
Lamia. Part II
© John Keats
Love in a hut, with water and a crust,
IsLove, forgive us!cinders, ashes, dust;
Our HomeOur Country
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
YOUR home was mine,--kind Nature's gift;
My love no years can chill;
In vain their flakes the storm-winds sift,
The snow-drop hides beneath the drift,
A living blossom still.
Concepcion De Arguello
© Francis Bret Harte
Looking seaward, o'er the sand-hills stands the fortress, old and
quaint,
By the San Francisco friars lifted to their patron saint,--
Written After Spending A Day At West Point
© Frances Anne Kemble
Were they but dreams? Upon the darkening world
Evening comes down, the wings of fire are furled,
Aphrodite
© Madison Julius Cawein
Apollo never smote a lovelier strain,
When swan-necked Hebe paused her thirsty bowl
The Common Lot
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
It is a common fatea woman's lot
To waste on one the riches of her soul,
Who takes the wealth she gives him, but cannot
Repay the interest, and much less the whole.
The Singer In The Prison
© Walt Whitman
O sight of pity, gloom, and dole!
O pardon me, a hapless Soul!
A Lament
© John Greenleaf Whittier
The circle is broken, one seat is forsaken,
One bud from the tree of our friendship is shaken;
One heart from among us no longer shall thrill
With joy in our gladness, or grief in our ill.
The Buried Flower
© William Edmondstoune Aytoun
In the silence of my chamber,
When the night is still and deep,
And the drowsy heave of ocean
Mutters in its charmed sleep,
