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Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow

Lord Thurlow

Thurlow, Edward Hovell-Thurlow (1781-1829)

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VERSES, IN ALL HUMILITY DEDICATED TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS The Prince Regent.

THE SECOND ELEGY OF The Fourth Book of Tibullus.

SONNET, ON BEHOLDING THE PORTRAITURE OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, IN THE GALLERY AT PENSHURST.

SONNET, ON THE DIVINE AND NEVER ENDING MEMORY OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY .

SONG. To the Rose.

SONNET. To Phœbus.

A SONG, IN APRIL.

A SONG, To the River Avon.

1.

A SONG OF THE SEA-FAIRIES.

2.

A SECOND SONG OF THE SEA-FAIRIES.

TO THE MARQUESS OF HASTINGS:

AN EPIGRAM OF ANTIPATER OF SIDON

FROM THE GREEK OF ANACREON.

SONNET.

SONNET, ON THE EXCELLENT POET, SHAKSPEARE.

SONNET, ON THE SAME.

THE PRAISE OF PINDAR, AND THEN OF AUGUSTUS CÆSAR

THE SUN-FLOWER.

EPIGRAM; FROM THE GREEK: In the Seventh Book of the Anthologia.

TO THE EARL OF ASHBURNHAM .

TO THE EARL SPENCER,

TO THE MARQUESS OF HASTINGS,

TO THE FOUNTAIN BANDUSIA.

TO A BELOVED FRIEND.

ON BEHOLDING BODIAM CASTLE,

TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.

SONNET, ON READING THE INDUCTION TO THE MIRROR OF MAGISTRATES, WHEREIN THE POET, LED BY SORROW, DESCENDS TO HELL.

SONNET, WHEN TRAVELLING, IN THE EVENING.

ON THE SAME EVENING, PASSING NEAR HASTINGS.

ON THE SAME EVENING.

THE DIALOGUE OF HORACE AND LYDIA.

SONG, IN ANGELICA.

LINES, COMPOSED, WHEN TRAVELLING FROM THE SEA-SIDE.

TO THE RIVER THAMES.

THE RITES, Had at the Burning of Arcita, of Thebes.

SONNET, WRITTEN ON THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER.

ON THE POEM OF MR. ROGERS, ENTITLED “AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.”

SONNET, IN SPRING.

SONNET, TO A BIRD, THAT HAUNTED THE WATERS OF LACKEN, IN THE WINTER.

THE ODES OF ANACREON, OF TEOS;

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37

SONNET.

[O, how small wit, in this time-lessen'd age]

O, how small wit, in this time-lessen'd age,
Can buy for men the witness of renown!
O, how large Envy, with a viper's rage,
The brow of merit reaveth of it's crown!
That men, whom all hereafter shall disown,
The dregs of time, and vile oblivion's prey,
Hold in large fee the world, and, overblown
With empty thoughts, grow lavish with decay:
Whilst the true greatness must the tribute pay,
Fool'd in opinion, to low-natur'd pride,
And, sick at heart, doth almost hate the day:
If this be so, and can it be denied?
Then barren Winter is preferr'd to Spring,
The Nightingale may list, the Cuckoo sing!