Anna Laetitia Barbauld

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

Anna Laetitia Barbauld Poems

1. Written On A Marble 9/6/2010
2. Where A Crowd Of Pilgrims Toil 9/6/2010
3. What Do The Futures Speak Of? 9/6/2010
4. West End Fair 9/6/2010
5. Washing-Day 9/6/2010
6. Verses Written In An Alcove 9/6/2010
7. Verses On Mrs Rowe 9/6/2010
8. Tormenting Cares 9/6/2010
9. Tomorrow 9/6/2010
10. To Wisdom 9/6/2010
11. To The Poor 9/6/2010
12. To The Miss Websters 9/6/2010
13. To The Baron Destonne, 9/6/2010
14. To The Baron Destonne 9/6/2010
15. To Mrs. P********, With Some Drawings Of Birds And Insects. 9/6/2010
16. To Mrs. Marissal 9/6/2010
17. To Mrs. A. 9/6/2010
18. To Mr. S. T. Coleridge 9/6/2010
19. To Mr. Bowring 9/6/2010
20. To Mr. Barbauld 9/6/2010
21. To Miss T. 9/6/2010
22. To Miss R.: On Her Attendance On Her Mother At Buxton 9/6/2010
23. To Miss F. B.: On Her Asking For Mrs. B's Love And Time 9/6/2010
24. To Love And Time 9/6/2010
25. To Dr. A. 9/6/2010
26. To Doctor Priestley 9/6/2010
27. To A Little Invisible Being 9/6/2010
28. To A Lady 9/6/2010
29. To A Friend 9/6/2010
30. To A Dog 9/6/2010
31. This Solemn Day 9/6/2010
32. The Wake Of The King Of Spain 9/6/2010
33. The Unknown God 9/6/2010
34. The Rights Of Woman 9/6/2010
35. The Origin Of Song Writing 9/6/2010
36. The Mouse's Petition 9/6/2010
37. The Invitation 9/6/2010
38. The Groans Of The Tankard 9/6/2010
39. The First Fire 9/6/2010
40. The Epiphany 9/6/2010
Best Poem of Anna Laetitia Barbauld

Inscription For An Ice-House

Stranger, approach! within this iron door
Thrice locked and bolted, this rude arch beneath
That vaults with ponderous stone the cell; confined
By man, the great magician, who controuls
Fire, earth and air, and genii of the storm,
And bends the most remote and opposite things
To do him service and perform his will,—
A giant sits; stern Winter; here he piles,
While summer glows around, and southern gales
Dissolve the fainting world, his treasured snows
Within the rugged cave.—Stranger, approach!
He will not cramp thy limbs with sudden age,
Nor wither with his ...

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A Thought On Death

When life as opening buds is sweet,
And golden hopes the fancy greet,
And Youth prepares his joys to meet,-
Alas! how hard it is to die!
When just is seized some valued prize,
And duties press, and tender ties
Forbid the soul from earth to rise,-
How awful then it is to die!
When, one by one, those ties are torn,

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