The Seasons: And The Castle of Indolence

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Tilt and Bogue, 1841 - 271 Seiten
 

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Seite 244 - 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.
Seite lix - In vain for him the' officious wife prepares The fire fair-blazing and the vestment warm ; In vain his little children, peeping out Into the mingling storm, demand their sire, With tears of artless innocence. Alas! Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold, Nor friends, nor sacred home.
Seite 209 - The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills ; And let me catch it, as I muse along. Ye headlong torrents, rapid, and profound; Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound His stupendous praise ; whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, In mingled clouds to Him ; whose sun exalts,...
Seite lvii - SEE, Winter comes to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train : Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme, These ! that exalt the soul to solemn thought, And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms...
Seite lx - Behold, fond Man! See here thy pictur'd life ; pass some few years, Thy flowering Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength, ' Thy sober Autumn fading into age, And pale concluding Winter comes at last, And shuts the scene.
Seite li - With quicken'd step, Brown Night retires : young Day pours in apace, And opens all the lawny prospect wide. The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top, Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn.
Seite 218 - Behold the merry minstrels of the morn, The swarming songsters of the careless grove, Ten thousand throats, that, from the flowering thorn, Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of love...
Seite 211 - When even at last the solemn hour shall come, and wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I cheerful will obey ; there, with new powers, will rising wonders sing : I cannot go where Universal Love not smiles around, sustaining all yon orbs and all their sons; from seeming Evil still educing Good, and Better thence again, and Better still, in infinite progression.
Seite 210 - Ye woodlands all, awake: a boundless song Burst from the, groves! and when the restless day, Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm The listening shades, and teach the night His praise.
Seite 21 - Cling to the bud, and, with inserted tube. Suck its pure essence, its ethereal soul ; And oft, with bolder wing, they soaring dare The purple heath, or where the wild thyme grows, And yellow load them with the luscious spoil.

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