The Discarded Son: Or, Haunt of the Banditti. A Tale ...

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Printed at the Minerva Press, for Lane, Newman, and Company, 1807
 

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Сторінка 111 - So many hours must I tend my flock; So many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate; So many hours must I sport myself...
Сторінка 109 - Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, Brief as the lightning in the collied night, That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And ere a man hath power to say, — Behold ! The jaws of darkness do devour it up : So quick bright things come to confusion.
Сторінка 111 - I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part And each particular hair to stand on end, Like quills upon the fretful porcupine : But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood.
Сторінка 69 - And sing the infusive force of Spring on man ,When heaven and earth, as if contending, vie To raise his being, and serene his soul, Can he forbear to join the general smile Of Nature ? Can fierce passions vex his breast, While every gale is peace, and every grove Is melody...
Сторінка 111 - To kings that fear their subjects' treachery? O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth. And to conclude, — the shepherd's homely curds, His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade, All which secure and sweetly he enjoys...
Сторінка 58 - All things to man's delightful use: the roof Of thickest covert was inwoven shade, Laurel and myrtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf: on either side Acanthus and each odorous bushy shrub Fenced up the verdant wall; each beauteous flower, Iris all hues, roses, and...
Сторінка 111 - ... treachery ? O, yes it doth ; a thousand fold it doth. And to conclude, — the shepherd's homely curds, His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade, All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, Is far beyond a prince's delicates, His viands sparkling in a golden cup, His body couched in a curious bed, When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.
Сторінка 111 - O God ! methinks it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run...
Сторінка 132 - When not a breath disturbs the drowsy waves : But man, the very monster of the world, Is ne'er at rest ; the soul for ever wakes.

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