Anna Laetitia Barbauld

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

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
89. To Wisdom 9/6/2010
90. Tomorrow 9/6/2010
91. Tormenting Cares 9/6/2010
92. Verses On Mrs Rowe 9/6/2010
93. Verses Written In An Alcove 9/6/2010
94. Washing-Day 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
Best Poem of Anna Laetitia Barbauld

Eighteen Hundred And Eleven

Still the loud death drum, thundering from afar,
O'er the vext nations pours the storm of war:
To the stern call still Britain bends her ear,
Feeds the fierce strife, the' alternate hope and fear;
Bravely, though vainly, dares to strive with Fate,
And seeks by turns to prop each sinking state.
Colossal power with overwhelming force
Bears down each fort of Freedom in its course;
Prostrate she lies beneath the Despot's sway,
While the hushed nations curse him—and obey.

Bounteous in vain, with frantic man at strife,
Glad Nature pours the means—the joys of ...

Read the full of Eighteen Hundred And Eleven

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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