Pieces selected from the Italian poets, by A. Isola, and tr. into Engl. verse by some gentlemen of the University
J. Archdeacon; and sold by J. & J. Merrill, J. Deighton, and by the editor, in Cambridge, 1784 - English poetry - 115 pages
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Page 18 - Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth, And melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere...
Page 10 - Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the Poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave Await alike th' inevitable hour : — The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Page 8 - The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Page 14 - On some fond breast the parting soul relies. Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who mindful of th...
Page 16 - There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Page 6 - THE CURFEW tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Page 12 - Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the fpoils of Time did ne'er unroll ; Chill Penury reprefs'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the foul.
Page 10 - Await alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud, impute to Thefe the fault, If Mem'ry o'er their Tomb no Trophies raife, Where thro' the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault The pealing anthem fwells the note of praife.
Page 8 - Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
Page 14 - Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd Mufe, The place of fame and elegy fupply : And many a holy text around fhe ftrews, That teach the ruftic moralift to dye.