Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow :: :: University of Virginia Library

Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow

Lord Thurlow

Thurlow, Edward Hovell-Thurlow (1781-1829)

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SONG. To May.

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

THE SECOND ELEGY OF The Fourth Book of Tibullus.

THE ROSE.

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 .

A SONG, To the River Avon.

A SONG OF THE SEA-FAIRIES.

A SECOND SONG OF THE SEA-FAIRIES.

A SONG.

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.

SONNET.

THE PRAISE OF PINDAR, AND THEN OF AUGUSTUS CÆSAR

THE SUN-FLOWER.

SONNET.

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.

SONNET.

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.

IN AUTUMN.

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

SONNET.

SONNET, IN SPRING.

TO VIRGIL.

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

SONG.

THE ODES OF ANACREON, OF TEOS;

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

When Rogers o'er this labour bent,
Their purest fire the Muses lent,
T' illustrate this sweet Argument.

Search all the ancient Poets o'er,
An ample and immortal store,
Their choicest wit can give no more.

Before this lovely Work appear'd,
By the fine critics it was fear'd,
Too much to th' Arctic Pole we near'd:

So poor in wit was all we wrote,
So void of philosophic thought,
So inharmoniously we wrought:

But this divine and matchless strain,
By other Poets hop'd in vain,
I' th' instant set us right again.

This book's a lamp, whose silver ray
Shall burn, unconscious of decay,
Till countless ages roll away:

It is a web, so finely wove,
If Pallas the light shuttle drove,
No fairer could be made for Jove.

Then, thus, to form Apollo's crown,
(Let ev'ry other bring his own,)
I lay my branch of laurel down.