Bell's classical arrangement of fugitive poetry (Google eBook)

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printed by John Bell, 1789 - 192 pages
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Page 157 - Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast, And woo the weary to profound repose ! Can Passion's wildest uproar lay to rest, And whisper comfort to the man of woes ! Here Innocence may wander, safe from foes, And Contemplation soar on seraph wings.
Page 136 - In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene. In darkness, and in storm, he found delight : Nor less, than when on. ocean-wave serene The southern sun diffused his dazzling...
Page 130 - O how canst thou renounce the boundless store Of charms which Nature to her votary yields ! The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields; All that the genial ray of morning gilds, And all that echoes to the song of even, All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, And all the dread magnificence of heaven, O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven I X.
Page 143 - O Nature, how in every charm supreme ! Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new ! O for the voice and fire of seraphim, To sing thy glories with devotion due ! Blest be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew. From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus...
Page 160 - Let Vanity adorn the marble tomb With trophies, rhymes, and scutcheons of renown, In the deep dungeon of some Gothic dome, Where night and desolation ever frown. Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down ; Where a green grassy turf is all I crave, With here and there a violet bestrown, Fast by a brook, or fountain's murmuring wave. And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.
Page 168 - Sweet were your shades, O ye primeval groves ! Whose boughs to man his food and shelter lent, Pure in his pleasures, happy in his loves, His eye still smiling, and his heart content. Then, hand in hand, health, sport, and labour went. Nature supply'd the wish she taught to crave.
Page 145 - O cruel ! will no pang of pity pierce That heart, by lust of lucre sear'd to stone ? For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse, To latest times shall tender souls bemoan Those hopeless orphan-babes by thy fell arts undone.
Page 127 - I who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar...
Page 178 - Warbling at will through each harmonious maze, Was taught to modulate the artful strain, I fain would sing : but ah ! I strive in vain. Sighs from a breaking heart my voice confound . With trembling step, to join yon weeping train , I haste, where gleams funereal glare around, And, mix'd with shrieks of woe, the knells of death resound. LXII. Adieu, ye lays, that Fancy's flowers adorn, The soft amusement of the vacant mind...
Page 153 - OF chance or change, 0 let not man complain, Else shall he never, never cease to wail ; For, from the imperial dome, to where the swain Rears the lone cottage in the silent dale, All feel the assault of Fortune's fickle gale...

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