Poetical selections, consisting of the most approved pieces of our best British poets, excellent specimens of fugitive poetry, and some original pieces by Cowper, Darwin, and others

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Thomson&Wrightson, 1811 - 300 pages
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Page 18 - Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave...
Page 19 - Like leviathans afloat Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath For a time. But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of oak!
Page 169 - Await alike th' inevitable hour : — The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death...
Page 118 - I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.' The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, — When, oh ! too strong for human hand The tempest gather'd o'er her.
Page 20 - Again ! again ! again ! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back; — Their shots along the deep slowly boom: Then ceased — and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail, Or in conflagration pale Light the gloom.
Page 16 - The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave ! — For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave...
Page 221 - He threw his blood-stain'd sword, in thunder, down ; And, with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe...
Page 52 - Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul; While low delights, succeeding fast behind, In happier meanness occupy the mind : As in those domes, where Caesars once bore sway, Defaced by time and tottering in decay, There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; And, wondering man could want the larger pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.
Page 48 - Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee : Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.
Page 219 - Adieu !" At length, his transient respite past. His comrades, who before Had heard his voice in every blast, Could catch the sound no more ; For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank. No poet wept him : but the page Of narrative sincere, That tells his name, his worth, his age. Is wet with Anson's tear i And tears by bards or heroes shed, Alike immortalize the dead.

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