The Poetical Register, and Repository of Fugitive Poetry ..., Volume 4

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F. C. & J. Rivington, 1806 - English poetry
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Page 248 - Go — you may call it madness, folly; You shall not chase my gloom away. There's such a charm in melancholy, I would not, if I could, be gay. Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure That fills my bosom when I sigh, You would not rob me of a treasure Monarchs are too poor to buy.
Page 392 - YE, who with warmth the public triumph feel Of talents dignified by sacred zeal, Here, to devotion's bard devoutly just, Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust ! England, exulting in his spotless fame, Ranks with her dearest sons his favourite name.
Page 128 - has been so much accustomed of late to didactic poetry alone, and essays on moral subjects, that any work, where the imagination is much indulged, will perhaps not be relished or regarded. The author, therefore, of these pieces is in some pain, lest certain austere critics should think them too fanciful or descriptive. But as he is convinced that the fashion of moralizing in verse, has been carried 'too far...
Page 231 - The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave — For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow!
Page 451 - I'm declining, May my fate no less fortunate be Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining, And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea; With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn, While I carol away idle sorrow, And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn Look forward with hope for to-morrow. With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, As the...
Page 452 - Which I've worn for three-score years and ten, On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering, Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again : But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey, And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow ; As this old worn-out stuff, which is thread-bare to-day, May become everlasting to-morrow.
Page 210 - Whene'er you touch the poet's lyre, A loftier strain is heard ; Each ardent thought is yours alone, And every burning word. Yours is the large, expansive thought, The high, heroic deed ; Exile and chains to you are dear, — To you 't is sweet to bleed. You lift on high the warning voice, When public ills prevail ; Yours is the writing on the wall That turns the tyrant pale.
Page 452 - With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too As the sunshine or rain may prevail ; And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, With a barn for the use of the flail : A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game...
Page 452 - I share what today may afford, And let them spread the table to-morrow. And when I at last must throw off this frail...
Page 231 - Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow ; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow.

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