Tears are for lighter griefs.  Man weeps the doom, 94. 
The cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard, 10. 
The cloud doth gather, the greenwood roar, 324. 
The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening, 29. 
The Devil was sick and queasy of late, 128. 
The frugal snail, with fore-cast of repose, 71. 
The Gods have made me most unmusical, 101. 
The Lady Blanch, regardless of all her lovers’ fears, 41. 
The Lord of Life shakes off his drowsihed, 16. 
The reason why my brother’s so severe, 345. 
The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever, 10. 
There are, I am told, who sharply criticise, 142. 
They talk of time, and of time’s galling yoke, 60. 
This rare tablet doth include, 51. 
Thou fragile, filmy, gossamery thing, 105. 
Thou should’st have longer liv’d, and to the grave, 24. 
Thou too art dead,...! very kind, 21. 
Though thou’rt like Judas, an apostate black, 115. 
Time-mouldering crosses, gemm’d with imagery, 121. 
’Tis a Book kept by modern Young Ladies for show, 104. 
’Tis pleasant, lolling in our elbow chair, 93. 
To gratify his people’s wish, 120. 
To name a Day for general prayer and fast, 123. 
To the memory, of Dr. Onesimus Drake, 125. 
Twelve years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then, 62. 
Two miracles at once!  Compell’d by fate, 122.

Under this cold marble stone, 88. 
Untoward fate no luckless wight invades, 146.

Was it so hard a thing?  I did but ask, 17. 
Was it some sweet device of Faery, 4, 309. 
We were two pretty babes, the youngest she, 9. 
What makes a happy wedlock?  What has fate, 80. 
What reason first imposed thee, gentle name, 44. 
What rider’s that? and who those myriads bringing, 90. 
What time in bands of slumber all were laid, 3. 
What Wawd knows, God knows, 124. 
When first our Bard his simple will express’d, 147. 
When her son, her Douglas died, 11. 
When last I roved these winding woodwalks green, 8. 
When last you left your Woodbridge pretty, 55. 
When maidens such as Hester die, 32. 
When thy gay book hath paid its proud devoirs, 100. 
Where seven fair Streets to one tall Column draw, 67. 
Where the soul drinks of misery’s power,