Gems of British poesy

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C. & C. Whittingham, 1824 - Literary Criticism - 148 pages
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Page 69 - 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, Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." Slow through the churchyard path we
Page 69 - Haply some hoary headed swain may say: " Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dew away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. " There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreaths its old fantastic root so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the
Page 47 - Yet gave me, in this dark estate, To see the good from ill ; And, binding Nature fast in Fate, Left free the human will; What Conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do, This teach me more than hell to shun, That more than heaven
Page 23 - time drives flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb, And all complain of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yield ; A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns,
Page 101 - Bat times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain; Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth and cumberous pomp repose; And every want to luxury allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that
Page 67 - did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their farrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield ! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Page 63 - She wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van with flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. " * Mighty victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies
Page 69 - that bubbles by. ** Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. *
Page 39 - how alter'd was its sprightlicr tone! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an aspiring air that dale and thicket rung. The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known; The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen,
Page 39 - Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an aspiring air that dale and thicket rung. The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known; The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, Satyrs and silvan boys were seen Peeping from forth their alleys green

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