Palgrave's Golden Treasury of Songs and Lyrics ...

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Macmillan and Company, Limited, 1896
 

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Страница 80 - And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.
Страница 25 - My true account, lest he returning chide; ' Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?' I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, ' God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best.
Страница 17 - For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.
Страница 16 - YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more, Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear Compels me to disturb your season due; For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
Страница 87 - Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain. Soothed with the sound the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again, And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain!
Страница 73 - Sometimes with secure delight The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth and many a maid, Dancing in the chequered shade, And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday...
Страница 74 - In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp and feast and revelry, With mask and antique pageantry, Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. 130 Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
Страница 71 - HENCE, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born In Stygian cave forlorn 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings And the night-raven sings ; There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
Страница 78 - Or let my lamp, at midnight hour, Be seen in some high lonely tower, Where I may oft out-watch the Bear, With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere The spirit of Plato to unfold What worlds, or what vast regions hold The immortal mind, that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook...
Страница 77 - But first and chiefest, with thee bring Him that yon soars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, The Cherub Contemplation ; And the mute Silence hist along, 'Less Philomel will deign a song, In her sweetest saddest plight.

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