The Poetical Works and Remains of Henry Kirke White

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John Wurtele Lovell, 1881 - English literature - 487 pages
 

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Page 356 - Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee, How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair.
Page 355 - Go, lovely rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then...
Page 229 - Unhappy White ! while life was in its spring,* And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, The spoiler came ; and all thy promise fair Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, When Science...
Page 353 - Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks, From every host, from every gem ; But one alone the Saviour speaks, It is the star of Bethlehem.
Page 353 - It was my guide, my light, my all, It bade my dark forebodings cease; And through the storm and danger's thrall, It led me to the port of peace. Now safely moored, my perils o'er, I'll sing, first in night's diadem, For ever and for evermore, The Star, the Star of Bethlehem.
Page 380 - What are our joys but dreams? and what our hopes But goodly shadows in the summer cloud ? There's not a wind that blows but bears with it Some rainbow promise: — Not a moment flies But puts its sickle in the fields of life, And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares.
Page 273 - And when the blustering winter winds Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, I lay me on my lonely mat, And pleasant are my dreams. And fancy gives me back my wife; And fancy gives me back my child; She gives me back my little home, And all its placid joys. Then hateful is the morning hour, That calls me from the dream of bliss, To find myself still lone, and hear The same dull sounds again.
Page 307 - Thee, when young Spring first question'd Winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone, Thy tender elegance...
Page 331 - ... it is hard To feel the hand of Death arrest one's steps, Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes, And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades, Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion. Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry ? Oh ! none ; — another busy brood of beings Will shoot up in the interim, and none Will hold him in remembrance.
Page 38 - Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven, For thou severe wert sent from heaven To wean me from the world ; To turn my eye From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die.

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