A Collection of Poems in Four Volumes, Volume 2

Front Cover
assignment from the executors of G. Pearch, 1783 - English poetry
0 Reviews
 

What people are saying - Write a review

We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.

Other editions - View all

Common terms and phrases

Popular passages

Page 4 - Grac'd with soft arts, the peopled world around,! The morn that lights you, to your loves...
Page 27 - Push'd by a wild and artless race From off its wide ambitious base, When Time his northern sons of spoil awoke, And all the blended work of strength and grace, With many a rude repeated stroke, And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments broke.
Page 45 - He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, And with a withering look The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe.
Page 37 - The band, as fairy legends say, Was wove on that creating day . When He, who call'd with thought to birth...
Page 34 - On whom that ravening brood of Fate, Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait ; Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see, And look not madly wild, like thee ? EPODE. In earliest Greece, to thee, with partial choice, The grief-full Muse addrest her infant tongue ; The maids and matrons, on her awful voice, Silent and pale, in wild amazement hung.
Page 38 - Of rude access, of prospect wild, Where, tangled round the jealous steep, Strange shades o'erbrow the valleys deep, And holy Genii guard the rock, Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock, While on its rich ambitious head, An Eden, like his own, lies spread.
Page 34 - Vengeance, in the lurid air, Lifts her red arm, expos'd and bare: On whom that ravening brood of Fate, Who lap the blood of Sorrow, wait: Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see, And look not madly wild, like thee ? EPODE.
Page 7 - Ye mute Companions of my Toils, that bear In all my Griefs a more than equal Share!
Page 20 - With balmy hands his wounds to bind, And charm his frantic woe, When first Distress, with dagger keen, Broke forth to waste his...
Page 44 - Next Anger rush'd : his eyes on fire, In lightnings, own'd his secret stings : In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings.

Bibliographic information