Date: 1803
"What though Astrea decks my soul in gold, / My mortal lumber trembles with the cold;"
preview | full record— Chatterton, Thomas (1752-1770)
Date: 1803
"How shall I touch his iron soul with pain, / Who hears unmoved a multitude complain?"
preview | full record— Chatterton, Thomas (1752-1770)
Date: 1803
"Sermons, though flowing from the sacred lawn, / Are flimsy wires from reason's ingot drawn."
preview | full record— Chatterton, Thomas (1752-1770)