Selections from the Greek Anthology

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Rosamund Marriott Watson
W. Scott, limited, 1889 - English poetry - 277 pages
 

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Page 229 - THOU wert the morning star among the living, Ere thy fair light had fled ; Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus, giving New splendour to the dead.
Page 212 - AN EPITAPH. MY name — my country — what are they to thee? What, whether base or proud my pedigree ? Perhaps I far surpass'd all other men — Perhaps I fell below them all — what then ? Suffice it, stranger ! that thou seest a tomb — Thou know'st its use — -it hides — no matter whom.
Page 280 - GARNETT, LL.D. LIFE OF ADAM SMITH. By RB HALDANE, MP LIFE OF KEATS. By WM ROSSETTI. LIFE OF SHELLEY. By WILLIAM SHARP.
Page 98 - Full oft of old the islands changed their name, And took new titles from some heir of fame ; Then dread not ye the wrath of gods above, But change your own and be the
Page 193 - This life a theatre we well may call, Where every actor must perform with art ; Or laugh it through, and make a farce of all, Or learn to bear with grace his tragic part.
Page 241 - The dewy dark-eyed violet, Narcissus, and the wind-flower wet : Wilt thou disdain mine offering ? Ah, Golden Eyes ! Crowned with thy lover's flowers, forget The pride wherein thy heart is set, For thou, like these or anything, Hast but a moment of thy spring, Thy spring, and then — the long regret ! Ah, Golden Eyes...
Page 279 - Medici. Essays and Letters of PB Shelley. Prose Writings of Swift. My Study Windows. Lowell's Essays on the English Poets. The Biglow Papers.
Page 87 - She vanished then. And I, poor fool, must turn To teach the boy, as if he wished to learn. I taught him all the pastoral songs I knew And used to sing; and I informed him too, How Pan found out the pipe, Pallas the flute, Phoebus the lyre, and Mercury the lute. But not a jot for all my words cared he, But lo!
Page 198 - Breathing the thin breath through our nostrils, we Live, and a little space the sunlight see — Even all that live — each being an instrument To which the generous air its life has lent. If with the hand one quench our draught of breath, He sends the stark soul shuddering down to death. We that are nothing on our pride are fed, Seeing, but for a little air, we are as dead. The next beautiful one — quite Tennysonian — is attributed to vEsopus in the " Palatine Anthology," though Mr. Wright...
Page 11 - Why shrink from Death, the parent of repose, The cure of sickness and all human woes? As through the tribes of men he speeds his way, Once, and but once, his visit he will pay ; Whilst pale diseases, harbingers of pains Close on each other crowd— an endless train.

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