Date: 1814, 1816, 1896

"These, when impeachments, false, his feelings pain'd, / Authority still strengthen'd--pow'r maintain'd-- / Oft curv'd his neck, borne down by injur'd heart-- / Steel'd his torn breast to bear sarcastic dart--"

— Woodhouse, James (bap. 1735, d. 1820)

Date: 1814, 1816, 1896

"But, led by twilight lantern's twinkling pow'rs, / To guard such godlike Creatures' dozing hours, / For crumbs scrap'ed up, and dealt in scanty doles, / Just soldering Bodies, and cementing Souls!"

— Woodhouse, James (bap. 1735, d. 1820)

Date: 1814, 1816, 1896

"While all their [ideas'] features, fine; complexions, pure, / Neglected rust--nor long their dates endure--"

— Woodhouse, James (bap. 1735, d. 1820)

Date: 1815

"I know full well you cannot steel / Your breast, against the pains I feel"

— Combe, William (1742 -1823)

Date: 1816

"And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields, / With emblems well devised by amorous pride, / Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide."

— Byron, George Gordon Noel, sixth Baron Byron (1788-1824)

Date: 1817

"But he, the bard of every age and clime, / Of genius fruitful, ardent and sublime, / Who, from the glowing mint of fancy, pours / No spurious metal, fused from common ores, / But gold, to matchless purity refined, / And stamp'd with all the godhead in his mind."

— Gifford, William (1756-1826)

Date: 1817

"[H]e must be possest, / Of more, Vagellius, than thy iron breast, / Who braves their anger, and with ten poor toes, / Defies such countless hosts of hobnail'd shoes."

— Gifford, William (1756-1826)

Date: 1817

"The friends thou hast, and their adoption try'd, / Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;"

— Combe, William (1742 -1823)

Date: 1817, 1818

"My mind became the book through which I grew / Wise in all human wisdom, and its cave, / Which like a mine I rifled through and through, / To me the keeping of its secrets gave"

— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)

Date: 1817, 1818

"With ever-changing notes it floats along, / Till on my passive soul there seemed to creep / A melody, like waves on wrinkled sands that leap"

— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)