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About this Poem 

From Ballads and Songs (London: Cassell and Company, 1896).

 

When Moonlike Ore the Hazure Seas

  When moonlike ore the hazure seas
    In soft effulgence swells,
  When silver jews and balmy breaze
    Bend down the Lily's bells;
  When calm and deap, the rosy sleep
    Has lapt your soal in dreems,
  R Hangeline! R lady mine!
    Dost thou remember Jeames?

  I mark thee in the Marble All,
    Where England's loveliest shine—
  I say the fairest of them hall
    Is Lady Hangeline.
  My soul, in desolate eclipse,
    With recollection teems—
  And then I hask, with weeping lips,
    Dost thou remember Jeames?

  Away! I may not tell thee hall
    This soughring heart endures—
  There is a lonely sperrit-call
    That Sorrow never cures;
  There is a little, little Star,
    That still above me beams;
  It is the Star of Hope—but ar!
    Dost thou remember Jeames?

This poem is in the public domain. 

This poem is in the public domain. 

William Makepeace Thackeray

William Makepeace Thackeray, born July 18, 1811, was an English writer best known for his novels, particularly The History of Henry Esmond, Esq. (The Mershon Company Publishers, 1852) and Vanity Fair (Bradbury and Evans, 1848). While in school, Thackeray began writing poems, which he published in a number of magazines, chiefly Fraser and Punch. He died on December 24, 1863.

by this poet

poem
    With ganial foire
    Thransfuse me loyre,
  Ye sacred nympths of Pindus,
    The whoile I sing
    That wondthrous thing,
  The Palace made o' windows!

    Say, Paxton, truth,
    Thou wondthrous youth,
  What sthroke of art celistial,
    What power was lint
    You to invint
  This combineetion cristial
poem
  OR, THE CAGED HAWK.

 No more, thou lithe and long-winged hawk, of desert-life for thee;
  No more across the sultry sands shalt thou go swooping free:
  Blunt idle talons, idle beak, with spurning of thy chain,
  Shatter against thy cage the wing thou ne'er may'st spread again.

  Long, sitting by their
poem
There was a king of Yvetot, Of whom renown hath little said, Who let all thoughts of glory go, And dawdled half his days a-bed; And every night, as night came round, By Jenny, with a nightcap crowned, Slept very sound: Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he! That's the kind of king