The London Quarterly Review, Volume 4 (Google eBook)

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Theodore Foster, 1811
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Page 164 - Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun, When first on this delightful land he spreads His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth After soft showers; and sweet the coming on Of grateful evening
Page 170 - IN the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess, Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! When I lie within my bed, Sick in heart, and sick in head, And with doubts discomforted, Sweet Spirit, comfort me...
Page 285 - Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake Creep and intrude and climb into the fold ! Of other care they little reckoning make Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, And shove away the worthy bidden guest. Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have...
Page 292 - Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilarate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood Of ancient growth, make music not unlike The dash of ocean on his winding shore...
Page 292 - I care not, fortune, what you me deny ; You cannot rob me of free nature's grace ; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her brightening face, You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve : Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave : Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.
Page 282 - On Mincio's banks, in Caesar's bounteous reign, If Tityrus found the golden age again, Must sleepy bards the flattering dream prolong, Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song ? From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray, Where Virgil, not where fancy, leads the way ? Yes, thus the muses sing of happy swains, Because the muses never knew their pains : They boast their peasants...
Page 282 - THE Village Life, and every care that reigns O'er youthful peasants and declining swains ; What labour yields, and what, that labour past, Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last ; What form the real picture of the poor, Demand a song — the Muse can give no more. Fled are those times, when, in harmonious strains, The rustic poet praised his native plains : No shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse, Their country's beauty or .their nymphs...
Page 292 - Nor less composure waits upon the roar Of distant floods, or on the softer voice Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length In matted grass, that with a livelier green Betrays the secret of their silent course.
Page 310 - The lovers' meeting : she beheld him faint. With tender fears, she took a nearer view, Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew ; He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said, " Yes! I must die ;
Page 493 - Lord's vineyard, it is needful you should do that part of the work which we advise, at those times and places which we judge most for His glory.

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