The New Monthly Magazine, and Literary Journal, Volume 4 (Google eBook)

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Oliver Everett, 1822
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Page 541 - She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek. She pined in thought And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat, like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief.
Page 368 - Ceremony, Not all these, laid in bed majestical, Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, Who with a body fill'd and vacant mind Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread...
Page 136 - Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed: Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters, war within themselves to wage.
Page 39 - Vanbrugh , and is a good example of his heavy though imposing style (*Lie heavy on him, Earth, for he Laid many a heavy load on thee"), with a Corinthian portico in the centre and two projecting wings.
Page 452 - AGAIN to the battle, Achaians ! Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance ; Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free : For the cross of our faith is replanted, The pale dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers
Page 162 - O ! who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast?
Page 85 - 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 bestrewn, Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave; And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.
Page 480 - When the babes cling around their father's knee ; And thine the voice that on the midnight sea Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home; Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see. Spirit! I've built a shrine ; and thou hast come, And on its altar closed for ever closed thy plume ! TO A LOVER OF FLOWERS.
Page 123 - The days are now long enough to walk in the Park after dinner; and so I do whenever it is fair. This walking is a strange remedy; Mr. Prior walks to make himself fat, and I to bring myself down ; he has generally a cough, which he only calls a cold : we often walk round the Park together.
Page 211 - In this our spacious isle, I think there is not one, But he hath heard some talk of him and Little John ; And to the end of time, the tales shall ne'er be done, Of Scarlock, George-a-Green, and Much the miller's son, Of Tuck the merry friar, which many a sermon made In praise of Robin Hood, his outlaws, and their trade.

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