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Nay but you, who do not love her
Nay, grieve not that ye can no honour give
Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring
Near to the silver Trent
New doth the sun appear
Never seek to tell thy love
Never stoops the soaring vulture
Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore
Night on the bloodstained snow: the wind is chill
No coward soul is mine
No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
No thyng ys to man so dere
Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note
Not that I love thy children, whose dull eyes
Not we the conquered! Not to us the blame
Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white
Now the lusty spring is seen
Now the North wind ceases
Now the sweet Dawn on brighter fields afar
Now winter nights enlarge
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room
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