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Page 50 - Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race Disporting on thy margent green The paths of pleasure trace; Who foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?
Page 292 - HARK! hark, my soul; angelic songs are swelling O'er earth's green fields, and ocean's wavebeat shore : How sweet the truth those blessed strains are telling Of that new life when sin shall be no more. Angels of Jesus, angels of light, Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night. 2 Onward we go, for still we hear them singing, 'Come, weary souls, for Jesus bids you come...
Page 339 - LET us go hence, my songs ; she will not hear. Let us go hence together without fear ; Keep silence now, for singing-time is over, And over all old things and all things dear. She loves not you nor me as all we love her. Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear, She would not hear.
Page 62 - O mistress mine, where are you roaming? O stay and hear ; your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low : Trip no further, pretty sweeting ; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. What is love ? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter ; What's to come is still unsure : In delay there lies no plenty ; Then come kiss me...
Page 166 - If She inspire, and He approve my lays. Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel A well-bred Lord to assault a gentle Belle? O say what stranger cause, yet unexplored, Could make a gentle Belle reject a Lord?
Page 404 - Gigantic daughter of the West, We drink to thee across the flood, We know thee most, we love thee best, For art thou not of British blood ? Should war's mad blast again be blown, Permit not thou the tyrant powers To fight thy mother here alone, But let thy broadsides roar with ours.
Page 383 - And here a while the Muse, High hovering o'er the broad cerulean scene, Sees Caledonia, in romantic view : Her airy mountains, from the waving main, Invested with a keen diffusive sky, Breathing the soul acute ; her forests huge...
Page 403 - France, tis strange, Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change! No single volume paramount, no code, No master spirit, no determined road; But equally a want of books and men!