And what's impossible can't be, And never, never comes to pass.
Three stories high, long, dull, and old, As great lord's stories often are.
But when ill indeed, E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed.
Story! God bless you, I have none to tell, sir!
I give thee sixpence! I will see thee d--d first.
So down thy hill, romantic Ashbourne, glides The Derby dilly, carrying three insides.
And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door.
A simple Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbor's corn.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love: A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh! The difference to me!
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again.
The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
Because the good old rule Sufficeth them, the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!
_Sonnets to National Independence and Liberty_.
Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade Of that which once was great is passed away.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart.
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold Which Milton held.
One of those heavenly days that cannot die.
A Creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food, For transient sorrows, simple wiles; Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command.
That inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude.
A Youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountainside.