The works of mr. James Thomson, to which is prefixed the life of the author by P. Murdoch (Google eBook)

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Page 174 - THESE, as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; And every sense, and every heart is joy.
Page 174 - With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year : And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks, And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, By brooks and groves in hollow-whispering gales, Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined, And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In Winter awful thou...
Page 142 - SEE, Winter comes to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train : Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme, These ! that exalt the soul to solemn thought, And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms ! Congenial horrors, hail ! with frequent foot...
Page 19 - Deep-struck, and runs out all the lengthened line; Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed, The caverned bank, his old secure abode ; And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool, Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand, That feels him still, yet to his furious course Gives way, you, now retiring, following now Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage ; Till, floating broad upon his breathless side, And to his fate abandoned, to the shore You gaily drag your unresisting prize.
Page 175 - But wandering oft with brute unconscious gaze, Man marks not THEE ; marks not the mighty hand, That ever busy wheels the silent spheres...
Page xvi - In yonder grave a druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave ; The year's best sweets shall duteous rise ^ To deck its poet's sylvan grave. In yon deep bed of whispering reeds His airy harp shall now be laid, That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds, May love through life the soothing shade.
Page 212 - 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 87 - The great deliverer he, who from the gloom Of cloistered monks and jargon-teaching schools, Led forth the true philosophy, there long Held in the magic chain of words and forms And definitions void: he led her forth, Daughter of Heaven! that, slow-ascending still, Investigating sure the chain of things, With radiant finger points to Heaven again.
Page 137 - O'er that the rising system, more complex, Of animals; and, higher still, the mind...
Page 185 - Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground ; And there a season atween June and May, Half...

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