Anne Hunter

(1742-1821 / Scotland)

Anne Hunter Poems

1. A Ballad Of The Eighteenth Century 10/12/2010
2. A Mermaid’s Song 10/12/2010
3. A Vow To Fortune 10/12/2010
4. Addressed To Mrs. G. 10/12/2010
5. Carisbrook Castle 10/12/2010
6. Elegy 10/12/2010
7. Elegy To The Memory Of William Seward, Esq. 10/12/2010
8. Epitaph For My Father 10/12/2010
9. Fairy Revels 10/12/2010
10. La Douce Chimere 10/12/2010
11. Laura 10/12/2010
12. Laura To Petrarch 10/12/2010
13. Lelia 10/12/2010
14. May Day 10/12/2010
15. November, 1784. 10/12/2010
16. Ode To The Conduit Vale, Blackheath 10/12/2010
17. Ode To The Old Year 1787. 10/12/2010
18. Remembrance 10/12/2010
19. Song 1 10/12/2010
20. Song 10 10/12/2010
21. Song 11 10/12/2010
22. Song 12 10/12/2010
23. Song 13 10/12/2010
24. Song 14 10/12/2010
25. Song 15 10/12/2010
26. Song 16 10/12/2010
27. Song 2 10/12/2010
28. Song 3 10/12/2010
29. Song 4 10/12/2010
30. Song 5 10/12/2010
31. Song 6 10/12/2010
32. Song 7 10/12/2010
33. Song 8 10/12/2010
34. Song 9 10/12/2010
35. Sonnet After The Death Of Laura 10/12/2010
36. The Death Song 10/12/2010
37. The Dirge Of Amoret 10/12/2010
38. The Farewell 10/12/2010
39. The Genius Of The Mountains Of Balagata 10/12/2010
40. The Lamentation Of Mary Stuart, Queen Of Scots 10/12/2010

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Best Poem of Anne Hunter

Ode To The Old Year 1787.

LET courtly bards, in courtly lay,
Invoke the muse on New Year's day,
Prophetic, future times unfold,
Or tell again the tales of old;
For me, I sing, in strains sincere,
A grateful tribute due to the departed year.
Glad I behold our native isle
In wealth, in peace, in honours smile;
The balance hold with steady hand,
And discord cease at her command:
The dogs of war compell'd to wait,
And Janus close again his half unfolded gate.

I love the months whose calm career
Have left me what my heart holds dear;
They gave me health, and peace, and ...

Read the full of Ode To The Old Year 1787.

Addressed To Mrs. G.

OF THE PRIORY,
CORNWALL.
WHEN the awaken'd soul receives
The first impression fancy gives,
Temper'd by soft affection's reign,
Sweet are the days of pleasing pain.
But, ah ! they fly, fly never to return,
And leave the aching heart their transient charms to mourn.
What magic shall the muse employ

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