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admire Alde amusing Beccles behold Belvoir Belvoir Castle blessed born unto Borough Burke called Castle cheer Christian church cold Crabbe's poems Crabbe's style curate death delight desire Duke dwell Edinburgh Review Edmund Burke English extracts fame father fishing gallery genius George Crabbe glad grave guest Hall hautboy head heart Holywell Street honour Horace Smith humble immortal Jeffrey John Johnson labour letters live Lord Lord Thurlow mind Mira Moore Moot Hall Muse neighbours never o'er Parham parish poor Parish Register passed Pat Jennings patient penned picture play-bill poet poetry publisher pulpit quiet reach London readers rear Rejected Addresses returned Robert Burns Salt-master Samuel Johnson Sarah Elmy scene Shakspere Sir Walter Scott sketch song Stathern story Suffolk sweet tell Theatre thou Thurlow town truth village walk Wickham-Brook wife Woodbridge worth write young
Page 54 - And doth not he, the pious man, appear, He,' passing rich with forty pounds a year ?' Ah ! no : a shepherd of a different stock, And far unlike him, feeds this little flock : A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's task As much as God or man can fairly ask ; The rest he gives to loves and labours light, To fields the morning, and to feasts the night; None better...
Page 54 - Theirs is yon House, that holds the parish poor, Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play, And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day ;— There children dwell who know no parents' care; Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there!
Page 54 - There children dwell who know no parents' care; Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there! Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, Forsaken wives, and mothers never wed; Dejected widows with unheeded tears, And crippled age with more than childhood fears; The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! The moping idiot, and the madman gay.
Page 75 - We can do nothing without the blue stockings; and thus by degrees the title was established.
Page 66 - I'll have my grave beneath a hill, Where only Lucy's self shall know, Where runs the pure pellucid rill Upon its gravelly bed below : There violets on the borders blow, And insects their soft light display, Till, as the morning sunbeams glow, The cold phosphoric fires decay. That is the grave to Lucy shown, The soil a pure and silver sand ; The green cold moss above it grown, Unpluck'd of all but maiden hand. In...
Page 73 - That for old clothes they'd even axe St. Mary ; And bucks with pockets empty as their pate, Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait ; Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house. Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow Where scowling fortune seem'd to threaten woe. John Richard William Alexander Dwyer Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire ; But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues, Emanuel Jennings polished Stubbs's shoes ; Emanuel Jennings brought...
Page 66 - I'll have my grave beneath a hill, " ' Where, only Lucy's self shall know ; " ' Where runs the pure pellucid rill " ' Upon its gravelly bed below ; " ' There violets on the borders blow, " ' And insects their soft light display, " ' Till, as the morning sunbeams glow, " ' The cold phosphoric fires decay.
Page 72 - Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane, While gradual parties fill our widen'd pit, And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit. At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease, Distant or near, they settle where they please ; But when the multitude contracts the span, And seats are rare, they settle where they can. Now the full benches, to late comers doom No room for standing, miscall'd standing room. Hark ! the check-taker moody silence breaks, And bawling
Page 49 - A Man may as well expect to grow stronger by always Eating, as wiser by always Reading. Too much over-charges Nature, and turns more into Disease than Nourishment. 'Tis Thought and Digestion which makes Books serviceable, and gives Health and Vigour to the Mind.
Page 42 - Yes, I behold again the place, The seat of joy, the source of pain ; It brings in view the form and face That I must never see again. 'The night-bird's song that sweetly floats On this soft gloom — this balmy air, Brings to the mind her sweeter notes That I again must never hear. 'Lo! yonder shines that window's light, My guide, my token, heretofore; And now again it shines as bright, When those dear eyes can shine no more. 'Then hurry from this place away! It gives not now the bliss it gave ;...