Who is Anna Seward

Anna Seward (12 December 1742 – 25 March 1809) was an English Romantic poet, often called the Swan of Lichfield. She benefited from her father's progressive views on female education.

Life

Family life

Seward was the elder of two surviving daughters of Thomas Seward (1708–1790), a prebendary of Lichfield and Salisbury and an author, and his wife Elizabeth. Elizabeth later had three further children (John, Jane and Elizabeth), who all died in infancy, and two stillbirths. Anna Seward mourned their loss in her poem Eyam (1788). Born in 1742 at Eyam, a mining village in the Peak District of Derbyshire, where her father was Rector, she and her sister Sarah, some 16 months younger, passed nearly all their life in that small area of the Peak District o...
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Anna Seward Poems

  • Sonnet Lxxviii
    Sophia tempts me to her social walls,
    That 'mid the vast Metropolis arise,
    Where Splendor dazzles, and each Pleasure vies
    In soft allurement; and each Science calls ...
  • Sonnet Xliii. To May, In The Year 1783
    My memory, long accustom'd to receive
    In deep-engraven lines, each varying trait
    Past Times and Seasons wore, can find no date
    Thro' many years, O! MAY, when thou hadst leave, ...
  • Odes From Horace. - To Mëcenas. Book The First, Ode The First
    I.

    Mëcenas, from Etrurian Princes sprung,
    For whom my golden lyre I strung, ...
  • Sonnet Xc. Subject Continued
    My hour is not yet come! - these burning eyes
    Have not yet look'd their last! - else, 'mid the roar
    Of this wild STORM, what gloomy joy to pour
    My freed, exhaling Soul! - sublime to rise, ...
  • Sonnet Liv. A Persian King To His Son
    FROM A PROSE TRANSLATION IN SIR WILLIAM JONES' ESSAY ON THE POETRY OF THE EASTERN NATIONS.


    Guard thou, my Son, the Helpless and the Poor, ...
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Top 10 most used topics by Anna Seward

Soft 36 Bright 32 Long 27 Soul 25 Cold 24 Wild 23 Book 22 Golden 21 Silent 21 High 19


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Poem of the day

Andrew Lang Poem
Melville And Coghill - The Place Of The Little Hand
 by Andrew Lang

DEAD, with their eyes to the foe,
Dead, with the foe at their feet;
Under the sky laid low
Truly their slumber is sweet,
Though the wind from the Camp of the
Slain Men blow,
And the rain on the wilderness beat.

...

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