Anna Laetitia Barbauld

(20 June 1743 – 9 March 1825 / Leicestershire, England)

Anna Laetitia Barbauld Poems

1. Octogenery Reflections 9/6/2010
2. To Miss R.: On Her Attendance On Her Mother At Buxton 9/6/2010
3. To Mr. Bowring 9/6/2010
4. To Mrs. Marissal 9/6/2010
5. To The Baron Destonne 9/6/2010
6. Verses On Mrs Rowe 9/6/2010
7. On The King's Illness 9/6/2010
8. Pastoral Hymn 9/6/2010
9. Peace And Shepherd 9/6/2010
10. Praise To God 9/6/2010
11. In The Manner Of Spenser 9/6/2010
12. To The Baron Destonne, 9/6/2010
13. To Miss F. B.: On Her Asking For Mrs. B's Love And Time 9/6/2010
14. To Mr. Barbauld 9/6/2010
15. Where A Crowd Of Pilgrims Toil 9/6/2010
16. Prologue To A Drama 9/6/2010
17. Ovid To His Wife 9/6/2010
18. Ode To Remorse 9/6/2010
19. Songs 9/6/2010
20. On The Backwardness Of The Spring 1771 9/6/2010
21. West End Fair 9/6/2010
22. To Mrs. P********, With Some Drawings Of Birds And Insects. 9/6/2010
23. To The Miss Websters 9/6/2010
24. To Mrs. A. 9/6/2010
25. Tormenting Cares 9/6/2010
26. On The Death Of Mrs. Martineau, Senr. 9/6/2010
27. The Wake Of The King Of Spain 9/6/2010
28. On A Portrait 9/6/2010
29. Hymn To Content 9/6/2010
30. Logogriph 9/6/2010
31. The Baby-House 9/6/2010
32. The Epiphany 9/6/2010
33. How Blest The Righteous When He Dies! 9/6/2010
34. Jehovah Reigns 9/6/2010
35. Written On A Marble 9/6/2010
36. Verses Written In An Alcove 9/6/2010
37. Lines 9/6/2010
38. The Origin Of Song Writing 9/6/2010
39. To Love And Time 9/6/2010
40. To Miss T. 9/6/2010
Best Poem of Anna Laetitia Barbauld



Farewell the softer hours, Spring's opening blush
And Summer's deeper glow, the shepherd's pipe
Tuned to the murmurs of a weeping spring,
And song of birds, and gay enameled fields,—
Farewell! 'T is now the sickness of the year,
Not to be medicined by the skillful hand.
Pale suns arise that like weak kings behold
Their predecessor's empire moulder from them;
While swift-increasing spreads the black domain
Of melancholy Night;—no more content
With equal sway, her stretching shadows gain
On the bright morn, and cloud the evening sky.

Read the full of Autumn

An Address To The Deity

God of my life! and author of my days!
Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise;
And trembling, take upon a mortal tongue
That hallowed name to harps of seraphs sung.
Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more
Than veil their faces, tremble, and adore.
Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere
Are equal all,—for all are nothing here.
All nature faints beneath the mighty name,

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