The mother: a poem, in five books, Volume 3

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Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme, 1809 - Mothers - 242 pages
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Page 176 - O grief of griefs ! O gall of all good hearts, To see that virtue should despised be Of him that first was raised for virtuous parts, And now...
Page 166 - DWIGHT. Though renown Plant laurels on the warrior's grave, and wreathe With hays the slumbering bard — the mother's urn Shall claim more dear memorials : gratitude Shall there abide ; affection, reverence, there Shall oft revolve the precepts which now speak With emphasis divine. MRS. WEST. The mother of Timothy Dwight was a daughter of Jonathan Edwards, and seems to have inherited a large share of her father's talents and spiritual graces. Her powers of mind were unusually strong; her knowledge...
Page 176 - Of such as first were raised for virtue's parts, And now, broad spreading like an aged tree, Let none shoot up that nigh them planted be. O let not those of whom the muse is scorn'd, Alive or dead be by the muse adorn'd.
Page 72 - Sublim'd by her, valour transports its name To christian fortitude, patient to feel, And mighty to perform. Her power can change The sordid wisdom of the subtle snake To foresight, caution, and discernment sage ; Th...
Page 37 - O menac'd isle ! Last refuge of integrity and worth, To which religion, liberty, and peace Have flown as to an ark, riding secure Amid a world of waters ; must thou too Sink in the deluge that hath overwhelm'd Order and law, and from their base pluck'd up Empires and states, the elder born of time, Whelming the bright records of ancient fame, Habits and hopes, in the oblivious Now Of power invincible.
Page 176 - O grief of griefs, O gall of all good hearts ! To see that virtue should despised be, Of such as first were...
Page v - And gestures from some ouran-outang caught Seen at a raree-show ; a spurious brood, To Britain once unknown, familiar now To crowded cities and to rustic burghs : Let not this prating Dapper-wit, who gibes At courts and camps, yet parodies their crimes, Win wondering Cicely from blunt Colin Clout, The honest son of pure simplicity, Attractive even in his rustic garb.
Page 41 - Albion, become Thus lost, thus nameless, in the vortex vast Of universal rule ingulph'd, while all Thy monuments of glory pass away Like a poor maniac's dreams ; thy sons' renown, The virtue of thy daughters ? The sad Muse Bends on her harp, and, silent, bodes a change Vast, dolorous, fatal to her lofty song.
Page 85 - The careful mother in the narrow walk Of her own family, and bid her eye Direct the little commonwealth, till use Render'd confinement pleasure, and the prate Of gay simplicity and wonder bland, Than deep discussion or colloquial wit More grateful. Tyrant ! dost thou now enjoin Those tender arms with lax embrace to yield , Their dear delights to strangers...
Page 88 - On a bolder scale Than female softness can project, with nerves Brac'd tighter than maternal tenderness Can strain, must man be form'd, intrepid man, Lord of this lower world, pilot of state, Rough mariner, pilgrim of every soil, Oft shipwreck'd, oft benetted round with foes, Destin'd to hardy toil, and stern rebuffs, But never to despair.

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