The life and posthumous writings of William Cowper, by W. Hayley (Google eBook)

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Page 146 - Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary! For, could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see ? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign ; Yet, gently prest, press gently mine, My Mary!
Page 145 - T was my distress that brought thee low, My Mary ! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more ; My Mary ! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still...
Page 205 - When one, that holds communion with the skies, Has filled his urn where these pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings ; Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide, That tells us whence his treasures are supplied.
Page 361 - Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone, Except himself has chattels none, Well satisfied to be his own Whole treasure. Thus, hermitlike, his life he leads, Nor partner of his banquet needs, And if he meets one, only feeds The faster. Who seeks him must be worse than blind, (He and his house are so combined) If, finding it, he fails to find Its master.
Page 230 - But he, who knew what human hearts would prove, How slow to learn the dictates of his love, That, hard by nature and of stubborn will, A life of ease would make them harder still, In pity to the souls his grace design'd To rescue from the ruins of mankind, Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years, And said, " Go, spend them in the vale of tears.
Page 168 - Adieu !" At length, his transient respite past, His comrades, who before Had heard his voice in every blast, Could catch the sound no more: For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank. No poet wept him : but the page Of narrative sincere...
Page 425 - Oh, could'st thou speak, As in Dodona once thy kindred trees Oracular, I would not curious ask The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, The clock of history, facts and events Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts Recovering, and misstated setting right...
Page 147 - But ah! by constant heed I know How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last My Mary!
Page 427 - Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly Could shake thee to the root and time has been When tempests could not.
Page 233 - ... thank Pope : but unless we could imitate him in the closeness and compactness of his expression, as well as in the smoothness of his numbers, we had better drop the imitation, which serves no other purpose than to emasculate and weaken all we write. Give me a manly rough line, with a deal of meaning in it, rather than a whole poem full of musical periods, that have nothing but their oily smoothness to recommend them.

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