A collection of poems, by several hands [ed. by R. Dodsley]. (Google eBook)

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Page 2 - Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, , The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
Page 5 - There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Page 3 - The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Page 4 - HAMPDEN that with dauntlefs breaft The little tyrant of his fields withftood : Some mute inglorious MILTON here may reft, Some CROMWELL guiltlefs of his country's blood. Th' applaufe of lift'ning fenates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to defpife, To fcatter plenty o'er a fmiling land, And read their...
Page 153 - The robes of pleasure and the veils of woe: All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain, Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs are vain. Such was the scorn that...
Page 158 - But did not Chance at length her error mend? Did no subverted empire mark his end? Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ? Or hostile millions press him to the ground? His fall was destined to a barren strand, A petty fortress, and a dubious hand; He left the name, at which the world grew pale, To point a moral, or adorn a tale.
Page 226 - Untainted by the guilty bribe ; Uncurs'd amid the harpy tribe ; No orphan's cry to wound my ear ; My honour and my conscience clear ; Thus may I calmly meet my end, Thus to the grave in peace descend.
Page 152 - And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride; Where ne'er was known the form of mock debate, Or seen a new-made mayor's unwieldy state; Where change of fav'rites made no change of laws, And senates heard before they...
Page 6 - One morn I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 'The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
Page 251 - Our portion is not large, indeed ; But then how little do we need ! For nature's calls are few : In this the art of living lies, To want no more than may suffice, And make that little do.

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