Anna Laetitia Barbauld

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

Anna Laetitia Barbauld Poems

1. A School Eclogue 9/6/2010
2. A Summer Evening's Meditation 9/6/2010
3. A Thought On Death 9/6/2010
4. An Address To The Deity 9/6/2010
5. An Autumnal Thought 9/6/2010
6. An Inventory Of The Furniture In Dr. Priestley's Study 9/6/2010
7. Autumn 9/6/2010
8. Awake My Soul! 9/6/2010
9. Beauty Of Insects 9/6/2010
10. Behold 9/6/2010
11. Characters 9/6/2010
12. Come, Said Jesus 9/6/2010
13. Corsica 9/6/2010
14. Dejection 9/6/2010
15. Delia, An Elegy 9/6/2010
16. Dirge 9/6/2010
17. Eighteen Hundred And Eleven 9/6/2010
18. Enigma 9/6/2010
19. Epistle To Dr. Enfield 9/6/2010
20. Epistle To William Wilberforce, Esq. 9/6/2010
21. Epitaph On The Same 9/6/2010
22. Epithalamium 9/6/2010
23. Eternity 9/6/2010
24. For Easter Sunday 9/6/2010
25. Fragment 9/6/2010
26. How Blest The Righteous When He Dies! 9/6/2010
27. Hymn To Content 9/6/2010
28. Hymn: Ye Are The Salt Of The Earth 9/6/2010
29. In The Manner Of Spenser 9/6/2010
30. Inscription For An Ice-House 9/6/2010
31. Jehovah Reigns 9/6/2010
32. Joy To The Followers Of The Lord 9/6/2010
33. Life! I Know Not What Thou Art 9/6/2010
34. Lines 9/6/2010
35. Logogriph 9/6/2010
36. Octogenery Reflections 9/6/2010
37. Ode To Remorse 9/6/2010
38. Ode To Spring 9/6/2010
39. On A Lady's Writing 9/6/2010
40. On A Portrait 9/6/2010
Best Poem of Anna Laetitia Barbauld

A Summer Evening's Meditation

'TIS past! The sultry tyrant of the south
Has spent his short-liv'd rage; more grateful hours
Move silent on; the skies no more repel
The dazzled sight, but with mild maiden beams
Of temper'd light, invite the cherish'd eye
To wander o'er their sphere; where hung aloft
DIAN's bright crescent, like a silver bow
New strung in heaven, lifts high its beamy horns

Impatient for the night, and seems to push
Her brother down the sky. Fair VENUS shines
Even in the eye of day; with sweetest beam
Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood
Of soften'd radiance...

Read the full of A Summer Evening's Meditation

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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