"Nonce seven-line stanzas" pretty much describes all seven-line stanzas except for rime royal. There are thousands of possibilities of differing line lengths, rhyme schemes, and meters. To diagram nonce stanzas, see rhyme notation.

                                  We walked beside the sea,
                            After a day which perished silently
                            Of its own glory---like the Princess weird
                            Who, combating the Genius, scorched and seared,
                            Uttered with burning breath, "Ho! victory!"
                            And sank adown, an heap of ashes pale;
                                 So runs the Arab tale.

                                 The sky above us showed
                            An universal and unmoving cloud,
                            On which, the cliffs permitted us to see
                            Only the outline of their majesty,
                            As master-minds, when gazed at by the crowd!
                            And, shining with a gloom, the water grey
                                 Swang in its moon-taught way.
                                                                    --Elizabeth Barrett Browning

      I.

                             Oh, what a dawn of day!
                             How the March sun feels like May!
                                 All is blue again
                                 After last night's rain,
                             And the South dries the hawthorn-spray.
                                 Only, my Love's away!
                             I'd as lief that the blue were grey,

                                    II.

                            Runnels, which rillets swell,
                            Must be dancing down the dell,
                                With a foaming head
                                On the beryl bed
                            Paven smooth as a hermit's cell;
                                Each with a tale to tell,
                            Could my Love but attend as well.
                                                            --Robert Browning

            THE swallow leaves her nest,
            The soul my weary breast;
            But therefore let the rain
                      On my grave
            Fall pure; for why complain?
            Since both will come again
                      O'er the wave.

            The wind dead leaves and snow
            Doth hurry to and fro;
            And, once, a day shall break
                      O'er the wave,
            When a storm of ghosts shall shake
            The dead, until they wake
                      In the grave.
                                        --Thomas Lovell Beddoes

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