Thomson and Pollok: Containing The Seasons

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Phillips, Sampson, 1849 - 438 стор.

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Сторінка 26 - Heavens! what a goodly prospect spreads around, Of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires, And glittering towns, and gilded streams, till all The stretching landscape into smoke decays!
Сторінка 104 - Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, In mingled clouds to Him, whose sun exalts, Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints.
Сторінка 104 - 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.
Сторінка 106 - From seeming evil still educing good, And better thence again, and better still, In infinite progression. But I lose Myself in Him, in light ineffable ! Come, then, expressive Silence, muse His praise.
Сторінка 79 - Through the hush'd air the whitening shower descends, At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day With a continual flow.
Сторінка 18 - And following slower, in explosion vast, The Thunder raises his tremendous voice. At first, heard solemn o'er the verge of heaven, The tempest growls ; but as it nearer comes, And rolls its awful burden on the wind, The lightnings flash a larger curve, and more The noise astounds : till over head a sheet Of livid flame discloses wide ; then shuts, And opens wider ; shuts and opens still Expansive, wrapping ether in a blaze.
Сторінка 80 - Now, shepherds, to your helpless charge be kind, Baffle the raging year, and fill their pens With food at will; lodge them below the storm, And watch them strict : for from the bellowing east, In this dire season, oft the whirlwind's wing Sweeps up the burden of whole wintry plains At one wide waft, and o•er the hapless flocks, Hid in the hollow of two neighbouring hills, The billowy tempest whelms; till, upward urged, The valley to a shining mountain swells, Tipt with a wreath high-curling in...
Сторінка 78 - The mountain thunders ; and its sturdy sons Stoop to the bottom of the rocks they shade. Lone on the midnight steep, and all aghast, The dark wayfaring stranger breathless toils, And, often falling, climbs against the blast.
Сторінка 32 - Glanced from the imperfect surfaces of things, Flings half an image on the straining eye ; While wavering woods, and villages, and streams, And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retained The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene, Uncertain if beheld. Sudden to heaven Thence weary vision turns ; where, leading soft The silent hours of love, with purest ray Sweet Venus shines ; and from her genial rise...

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