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Page 274 - The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream, And greedily devour the treacherous bait...
Page 463 - Of every hearer ; for it so falls out » That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack'd and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us Whiles it was ours.
Page 276 - Cooper's Hill, My eye, descending from the Hill, surveys Where Thames among the wanton valleys strays ; Thames ! the most loved of all the Ocean's sons, By his old sire, to his embraces runs, Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, Like mortal life to meet eternity. Though with those streams he no resemblance hold, Whose foam is amber and their gravel gold, His genuine and less guilty wealth t...
Page 275 - The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is gray. XXX. There is a tomb in Arqua ;— rear'd in air, Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose The bones of Laura's lover : here repair Many familiar with his well-sung woes, The pilgrims of his genius. He arose To raise a language, and his land reclaim From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : Watering the tree which bears his lady's name With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.
Page 276 - Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!
Page 361 - Thou who didst call the Furies from the abyss, And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss For that unnatural retribution — just, Had it but been from hands less near — in this Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust!
Page 270 - Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at anchor. Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous labor Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.
Page 409 - The unwelcome messenger of Fate Once more before him stood. Half killed with anger and surprise — "So soon returned! " old Dobson cries. " So soon, d'ye call it ! " Death replies : " Surely, my friend, you're but in jest : Since I was here before 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore.