Poetical Works of Thomson and Gray

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T. Nelson, 1861 - Gift books - 425 pages
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Page 375 - A stranger yet to pain ! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring.
Page 368 - Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
Page 368 - Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the Poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave Await alike th' inevitable hour : — The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Page 181 - I care not, fortune, what you me deny ; You cannot rob me of free nature's grace ; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her brightening face, You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve : Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave : Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.
Page 371 - The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
Page 370 - Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn...
Page 380 - Aeolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take: The laughing flowers, that round them blow, Drink life and fragrance as they flow. Now the rich stream of music winds along, Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Through verdant vales and Ceres...
Page 127 - Through the hush'd air the whitening shower descends, At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day With a continual flow.
Page 371 - There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Page 370 - Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply : And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

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