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admiration appeared ation bard Beaumont beauty Ben Jonson beneath Bertha bosom Canto Chant character charms chensey colours Cornelius Jansen cottage countenance cried daughter dear deep delight Derbyshire effect English Garden exclaimed father favourite feelings garden genius grace ground Hadleigh hand happy heart Helen Montchensey hour Hubert Gray imagination immediately interest Jardins Jonson justly kind landscape light Lille look Lord Southampton magic edge manner Master Shakspeare mind Mont morning Muse NATHAN DRAKE nature New-Place night o'er passage Peterhouse Petrarch pleasure poem poet poetry Raymond Neville recollect remarked rendered replied returned rocks scarcely scene scenery seemed shade Simon Fraser sleep smile song sonnets soon sorrow soul spirit Stratford stream sweet taste tears thee Thomas Lucy thou thought tion tone translator trees whilst wild WILLIAM ALABASTER wood Wyeburne Hall young youth
Page 12 - And, when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, Of pine, or monumental oak, Where the rude axe with heaved stroke Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallowed haunt.
Page 12 - Softly on my eyelids laid ; And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some spirit to mortals good, Or the unseen Genius of the wood.
Page 15 - Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade; Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great...
Page 71 - The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chant it ; it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age.
Page 11 - 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 6 - Welcome, ye shades ! ye bowery thickets, hail ! Ye lofty pines ! ye venerable oaks ! Ye ashes wild, resounding o'er the steep ! Delicious is your shelter to the soul, As to the hunted hart the sallying spring...
Page 254 - Many of his elegies appear to have been written in his eighteenth year, by which it appears that he had then read the Roman authors with very nice discernment. I once heard Mr Hampton, the translator of Polybius, remark, what I think is true, that Milton was the first Englishman who, after the revival of letters, wrote Latin verses with classic elegance.
Page 288 - So saying, her rash hand in evil hour Forth reaching to the Fruit, she pluck'd, she eat: Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her seat Sighing through all her Works gave signs of woe, That all was lost.