Various Poems: The Wanderer, a Moral Poem, The Triumph of Mirth and Health, and The Bastard. To which is Prefixed a Pref., Giving Some Account of Them

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J. Turner, 1761 - English poetry - 115 pages
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Page 129 - But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves, Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves, Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws A death-like silence., and a dread repose: Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene, Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green, Deepens the murmur of the falling floods, And breathes a browner horror on the woods.
Page 127 - ... on earth there be), And once the lot of Abelard and me. Alas, how chang'd ! what...
Page 129 - The darksome pines, that o'er yon rocks reclin'd, Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind, The wandering streams that shine between the hills, The grots that echo to the tinkling rills, The dying gales that pant upon the trees, The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze...
Page 126 - Curse on all laws but those which love has made ! Love, free as air, at sight of human ties Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.
Page 134 - Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee. Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign; Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine. Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!) Long lov'd, ador'd ideas!
Page 131 - But let heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fir'd; Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspir'd! Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue, Renounce my love, my life, myself — and you. Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.
Page 124 - Relentless walls ! whose darksome round contains Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains: Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn; Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn! Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep, And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep! Tho' cold like you, unmov'd and silent grown, I have not yet forgot myself to stone.
Page 127 - Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part, And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart. This sure is bliss (if bliss on earth there be) And once the lot of Abelard and me.
Page 127 - Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call, And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.
Page 125 - Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine. Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away; And is my Abelard less kind than they? Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare...

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