The Works of the British Poets: With Lives of the Authors, Том 23

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Mitchell, Ames, and White, 1819
 

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Сторінка 379 - Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round : Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ; And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
Сторінка 377 - twas wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whispered promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail...
Сторінка 378 - Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul : And dashing soft from rocks around Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.
Сторінка 378 - And, though sometimes, each dreary pause between. Dejected Pity at his side Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.
Сторінка 383 - No wither'd witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew ; The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew. The redbreast oft at evening hours Shall kindly lend his little aid, With hoary moss and gather'd flowers, To deck the ground where thou art laid.
Сторінка 377 - tis said, when all were fired, Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round They snatched her instruments of sound...
Сторінка 22 - Woe unto him that striveth with his Maker! Let the potsherd strive with the potsherds of the earth. Shall the clay say to him that fashioneth it, What makest thou?
Сторінка 380 - IN yonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave ! The year's best sweets shall duteous rise, To deck its Poet's sylvan grave ! In yon deep bed of whispering reeds His airy harp* shall now be laid ; That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds, May love through life the soothing shade.
Сторінка 362 - How sleep the Brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

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