Anna Laetitia Barbauld
Anna Laetitia Barbauld Poems
|81.||To Mr. S. T. Coleridge||9/6/2010|
|82.||To Mrs. A.||9/6/2010|
|83.||To Mrs. Marissal||9/6/2010|
|84.||To Mrs. P********, With Some Drawings Of Birds And Insects.||9/6/2010|
|85.||To The Baron Destonne||9/6/2010|
|86.||To The Baron Destonne,||9/6/2010|
|87.||To The Miss Websters||9/6/2010|
|88.||To The Poor||9/6/2010|
|92.||Verses On Mrs Rowe||9/6/2010|
|93.||Verses Written In An Alcove||9/6/2010|
|95.||West End Fair||9/6/2010|
|96.||What Do The Futures Speak Of?||9/6/2010|
|97.||Where A Crowd Of Pilgrims Toil||9/6/2010|
|98.||Written On A Marble||9/6/2010|
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.
A School Eclogue
Hist, William! hist! what means that air so gay?
Thy looks, thy dress, bespeak some holiday:
Thy hat is brushed; thy hands, with wondrous pains,
Are cleansed from garden mould and inky stains;
Thy glossy shoes confess the lacquey's care;
And recent from the comb shines thy sleek hair.
What god, what saint, this prodigy has wrought?