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Сторінка 590 - Oh let me live my own, and die so too ! (To live and die is all I have to do) Maintain a poet's dignity and ease, And see what friends, and read what books I please: Above a patron, though I condescend Sometimes to call a minister my friend.
Сторінка 602 - Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; Wait the great teacher, Death; and God adore. What future bliss, He gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never Is, but always To Be blest. The soul, uneasy and confined from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Сторінка 603 - But by your fathers' worth if yours you rate, Count me those only who were good and great. Go ! if your ancient but ignoble blood Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood, Go ! and pretend your family is young, Nor own your fathers have been fools so long. What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards ? Alas ! not all the blood of all the Howards.
Сторінка 70 - Earth and moon were gone And suns and universes ceased to be And thou wert left alone Every Existence would exist in thee...
Сторінка 596 - And something previous e'en to taste— 'tis sense; Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, And though no science, fairly worth the seven; A light which in yourself you must perceive ; Jones and Le Notre have it not to give.
Сторінка 598 - Know then this truth (enough for man to know) 'Virtue alone is happiness below.' The only point where human bliss stands still, And tastes the good without the fall to ill ; Where only merit constant pay receives, Is...
Сторінка 584 - All hail, great master! grave sir, hail ! I come To answer thy best pleasure ; be't to fly, To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride On the curl'd clouds ; to thy strong bidding, task Ariel, and all his quality.
Сторінка 598 - With lenient arts extend a mother's breath, Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death, Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, And keep awhile one parent from the sky...
Сторінка 172 - Oh, cease ! must hate and death return ? Cease ! must men kill and die ? Cease ! drain not to its dregs the urn Of bitter prophecy. The world is weary of the past, Oh, might it die or rest at last!
Сторінка 97 - I scarce could brook the strain and stir That makes the barren branches loud ; And but for fear it is not so, The wild unrest that lives in woe Would dote and pore on yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a labouring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire.