Poems. 2 vols [and] Minor poems

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Сторінка 7 - Is hung on high, to poison half mankind. All fame is foreign but of true desert, Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart : One self-approving hour whole years outweighs Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas : And more true joy Marcellus exil'd feels Than Caesar with a senate at his heels.
Сторінка 14 - Ere from her trump the heav'n-breath'd accents rise, That lift the Hero from the fighting crowd. Is it his grasp of Empire to extend ? To curb the fury of insulting foes ? Ambition, cease : the idle contest end : Tis but a Kingdom thou canst win or lose. And why must murder'd myriads lose their all, . (If Life be all) why Desolation...
Сторінка 24 - Each youth, inspir'd by your persuasive art, Clasps the dear form of Virtue to his heart ; And feels in his transported soul Enthusiastic raptures roll, Gen'rous as those the Sons of Cecrops caught In hoar Lycaeum's shades from Plato's fire-clad thought.
Сторінка 60 - Again at six Apelles came ; Found the same prating civil dame. Sir, that my master has been here, Will by the board itself appear.
Сторінка 15 - Ambition, cease : the idle contest end : 'Tis but a Kingdom thou canst win or lose. And why must murder'd myriads lose their all, (If life be all) why desolation lour, With famish'd frown, on this affrighted ball, That thou may'st flame the meteor of an hour ? Go, wiser ye, that flutter Life away, Crown with the mantling juice the goblet high ; Weave the light dance, with festive freedom gay, And live your moment, since the next ye die. /<r> Yet know, vain Sceptics, know, th...
Сторінка 11 - I have begun, unless I be removed into some quiet parsonage, where I may see God's blessings spring out of my mother earth, and eat my own bread in peace and privacy...
Сторінка 40 - Radiant Ruler, hear us call Blessings on the god-like youth, Who dared to fight, who dared to fall, For Britain, freedom, and for truth. His dying groan, his parting sigh Was music for the gods on high ; 'Twas Valour's hymn to Liberty.
Сторінка 35 - No trophied arch, no breathing bust, Shall dignify thy trampled dust : No laurel flourish o'er thy grave. For why, proud King ! thy ruthless hand Hurl'd Desolation o'er the land...
Сторінка 2 - Then do not blame, if, though thyself inspire, Cautious I strike the panegyric string : The Muse full oft pursues a meteor fire, And, vainly venturous, soars on waxen wing. Too actively awake at Friendship's voice, The poet's bosom pours the fervent strain, Till sad Reflection blames the hasty choice, And oft invokes Oblivion's aid in vain. Call we the shade of POPE, from that blest...
Сторінка 37 - Shall catch the rich melodious fpoil, And lightly brufh thee with their purple wings, To aid the zephyrs in their tuneful toil ; While others check each ruder gale, Expel rough Boreas from the fky, Nor let a breeze its heaving breath exhale, Save fuch as foftly pant, and panting die.

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