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Šther athelwold awful beauty beneath bids blaze bliss bloom boast boughs bow'rs breast breathe bright Britannia's brow chearful cheek crown'd dame delight drest Dryads e'er ELFRIDA Eurus Ev'n ev'ry fame Fancy flow flow'rs frae Freedom calls Freedom's glory glow Goddess grace green groves Hail hallow'd hand hardyknute head hear heart heav'n heav'nly ISIS king KING OF SCOTS knicht lov'd lyre maid mead micht mourn Muse Nature's Norse numbers nymph o'er pale patriot peace pensive plain pow'r prince proud Queen Quhair Quhen rage reign ROSE Rothsay sacred sage scene Scotland shade shine shyne sicht sield sierce sing sire sirst smile soft solemn song soul sound stept strain stream stryfe swain sweet sword tear tender thee thine thou thro throne tow'rs vale vermil virtue voice wand'ring wave winds wont zour
Page 71 - One morn I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 'The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
Page 67 - 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 68 - The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th
Page 69 - Some village-Hampden, that with dauntlefs breaft The little Tyrant of his fields withftood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft, Some Cromwell guiltlefs of his country's blood.. Th' applaufe of lift'ning fenates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to defpife, To fcatter plenty o'er a fmiling land, And read their...
Page 42 - Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit ; As musing slow I hail Thy genial loved return. For when thy folding-star * arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant Hours, and Elves Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still The pensive Pleasures sweet Prepare thy shadowy car.
Page 67 - Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 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.
Page 67 - And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds...
Page 71 - 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 42 - And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires, And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil.
Page 64 - Lie slaughter'd on their native ground ; Thy hospitable roofs no more Invite the stranger to the door; In smoky ruins sunk they lie. The monuments of cruelty. The wretched owner sees afar His all become the prey of war ; Bethinks him of his babes and wife, Then smites his breast, and curses life.