Poems, Volume 1

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T. Cadell and W. Davies, 1820 - 251 pages
 

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Page 16 - Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain. Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise ! * Each stamps its image as the other flies.
Page 134 - CHLOE'S eye ; Then, trembling, left its coral cell — The spring of Sensibility ! Sweet drop of pure and pearly light ! In thee the rays of Virtue shine ; More calmly clear, more mildly bright, Than any gem that gilds the mine.
Page 152 - MINE be a cot beside the hill, A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall, shall linger near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Page 103 - Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes, Thy rosy lips still wear a smile, And move, and breathe delicious sighs ! — Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks, And mantle o'er her neck of snow. Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks What most I wish — and fear to know. She starts, she trembles, and she weeps ! Her fair hands folded on her breast. — And now, how like a saint she sleeps ! A seraph in the realms of rest ! Sleep on secure ! Above...
Page 40 - Than when the shades of time serenely fall On every broken arch and ivied wall; The tender images we love to trace, Steal from each year a melancholy grace ! And as the sparks of social love expand, As the heart opens in a foreign land; And, with a brother's warmth, a brother's smile, The stranger greets each native of his isle...
Page 163 - CHILD of the sun ! pursue thy rapturous flight, Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of light; And, where the flowers of Paradise unfold, Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold. There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky, Expand and shut with silent ecstasy!
Page 83 - But little do men perceive what solitude is, and how far it extendeth. For a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love.
Page 12 - Her tattered mantle and her hood of straw ; Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er ; The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, Imps in the barn with mousing owlets bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed ; Whose dark eyes flashed through locks of blackest shade, When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bayed: And heroes fled the sibyl's muttered call, Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard wall.
Page 248 - Young man, there is America, which at this day serves for little more than to amuse you with stories of savage men and uncouth manners ; yet shall, before you taste of death, show itself equal to the whole of that commerce which now attracts the envy of the world.
Page 31 - To view the fairy-haunts of long-lost hours, Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers. Ages and climes remote to Thee impart What charms in Genius, and refines in Art ; Thee, in whose hand the keys of Science dwell, The pensive portress of her holy cell ; Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp Oblivion steals upon her vestal-lamp.

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