The Beauties of Henry Kirke White, Consisting of Selections from His Poetry and Prose

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N.H. Whitaker, 1827 - English literature - 214 pages

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Page 97 - To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone, Thy tender elegance.
Page 58 - Go to the raging sea, and say, " Be still ! " Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will ; Preach to the storm, and reason with Despair, But tell not Misery's son that life is fair.
Page 75 - THROUGH sorrow's night and danger's path, Amid the deepening gloom, We, soldiers of an injured King, Are marching to the tomb. 2 There, when the turmoil is no more, And all our powers decay, Our cold remains in solitude Shall sleep the years away. H Our labors done, securely laid In this our last retreat, Unheeded o'er our silent dust The storms of life shall beat.
Page 109 - When the tired hedger hies him home ; Or by the woodland pool to rest, When pale the star looks on its breast. Yet when the silent evening sighs, With hallow'd airs and symphonies, My spirit takes another tone, And sighs that it is all alone.
Page 120 - ... the scale Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God! Thou, the dread author of these wondrous works! Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm, One look "of kind benevolence? — Thou canst; For thou art full of universal love, And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart Thy beams as well lo me as to the proud, The pageant insects of a glittering hour.
Page 20 - Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme With self-rewarding toil ;-^-thus far have sung Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem The lyre, which I in early days have strung ; And now my spirits faint, and I have hung The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour, On the dark cypress 1 and the strings which rung With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, Or when the breeze comes by moan and are heard no more.
Page 76 - These ashes too, this little dust, Our Father's care shall keep, Till the last angel rise and break The long and dreary sleep.
Page 103 - Come funeral flower ! who lov'st to dwell With the pale corse in lonely tomb, And throw across the desert gloom A sweet, decaying smell — Come, press my lips and lie with me Beneath the lowly alder tree : And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare intrude, To break the marble solitude, So peaceful and so deep.
Page 71 - Storms and tempests, floods and rains, Stern despoilers of the plains, Hence, away, the season flee, Foes to light-heart jollity: May no winds careering high Drive the clouds along the sky, But may all nature smile with aspect boon, When in the heavens thou...
Page 133 - O'er her marts, Her crowded ports, broods Silence; and the cry Of the low curlew, and the pensive dash Of distant billows, breaks alone the void.

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