A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes. By Several Hands: With Notes

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J. Dodsley, 1782 - English poetry
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Page 116 - Peace resort, And Venus keeps her festive court, Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet, And lightly trip with nimble feet, Nodding their lily-crowned heads, Where Laughter rose-lip'd Hebe leads...
Page 181 - A'peevifh miftrefs, and a fulky wife; Her nerves unbrac'd, her faded cheek grown pale ' With many a real, many a fancy'd ail; Of cards, admirers, equipage bereft; Her infolence, and title, only left; Severely humbled to her one-horfe chair, And the low paftimes of a country-fair: Too wretched to endure one lonely day, Too proud one friendly vifit to repay, Too indolent to read, too criminal to pray.
Page 321 - Thy finking foul; nor thefe corporeal ills " Ought daunt thee, or appall. Know, in high heav'n *' Fame blooms eternal o'er that fpirit divine, " Who builds immortal verfe. There thy bold Mufe, " Which while on earth could breathe...
Page 130 - On his fleek brow the fwelling fweat-drops rife, And oft around he darts his glowing eye To view his well-breath'd hounds, full jolly company. VIII. Not far away was fage EXPERIENCE plac'd, With care-knit brow, fix'd looks, and fober 'plight, Who weighing well the prefent with the paft, Of every accident could read aright.
Page 184 - The daily bounties of their Maker's care; The great Creator from his heav'nly throne, Pleas'd, on the wide-expanded joy looks down, And his eternal law is only this, That all contribute to the general blifs. Nature...
Page 107 - Listening to dashing waves, and sea-mews clang High-hovering o'er his head, who views beneath The dolphin dancing o'er the level brine, Feels more true bliss than the proud admiral, Amid his vessels bright with burnish'd gold And silken streamers, tho' his lordly nod Ten thousand war-worn mariners revere.
Page 157 - O'er all the plains unnumber'd glories rife, And a new bright creation charms our eyes : 'Till Zephyr breathes, then all at once decay The fplendid fcenes, their glories fade away, The fields refign the beauties not their own. And all their fnow'y charms run trickling down. Dare I in fuch momentous points advife, I mould condemn the hoop's enormous fize, Of ills I fpeak by long experience found, Oft' have I trod th' immeafurable round, And mourn'd my fhins bruis'd black with many a wound.
Page 118 - When Winter, like poor pilgrim old, Shakes his silver beard with cold ; At every season let my ear Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear. O warm, enthusiastic maid, Without thy powerful, vital aid, That breathes an energy divine, That gives a soul to every line, Ne'er may I strive with lips profane To utter an unhallow'd strain, Nor dare to touch the sacred string, Save when with smiles thou bid'st me sing.
Page 242 - Twere facrilege t' imagine not divine, Who thought fo greatly of her eyes before, Bid her read this, and then be vain no more. How poor ev'n you, who reign without controul, If we except the beauties of your foul! Should all beholders feel the fame...
Page 108 - And genial earth untillag'd, could produce, They gather'd grateful, or the acorn brown, Or blushing berry; by the liquid lapse Of...

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