Awake, Æolian lyre, awake Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things Before the passing bell begun "Before the Word was written," said the Hind Behind yon hills where Lugar flows Come, gentle Spring, ethereal mildness, come 58 218 242 131 74 48 338 66 167 261 188 200 146 185 335 381 235 70 69 35 28 6 377 212 364 62 II 61 19 149 83 79 Forced by soft violence of pray'r For his long absence Church and State did groan 367 173 13 333 Green grow the rashes, O. H-, thou return'st from Thames, whose naiads long Hark! 't is the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll His grandeur he derived from Heaven alone Hobnelia, seated in a dreary vale How oft upon yon eminence our pace I am nae poet, in a sense If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song. I feed a flame within, which so torments me In Virgyne the sweltrie sun gan sheene I saw a chapel all of gold Is there for honest poverty It is not, Celia, in our power I travelled through a land of men I was a stricken deer that left the herd I went to the Garden of Love I would not enter on my list of friends 365 225 78 318 77 361 264 12 155 314 220 385 363 220 15 206 209 63 109 267 237 307 392 380 3 394 318 394 322 |