The pleasures of memory, with other poems

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Page 66 - If but a beam of sober Reason play, Lo ! Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away ! But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power, Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour...
Page 158 - Could crystallize this sacred treasure ! Long should it glitter near my heart, A secret source of pensive pleasure. The little brilliant, ere it fell, Its lustre caught, from 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 87 - Countess Dowager of Pembroke, &c. for a memorial of her last parting, in this place, with her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d of April, 1616; in memory whereof she hath left an annuity of 41.
Page 158 - That very law* which moulds a tear, And bids it trickle from its source, — That law preserves the earth a sphere, And guides the planets in their course.
Page 117 - 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 11 - Or viewed the forest-feats of Robin Hood : Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour, With startling step we scaled the lonely tower ; > O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, Murder'd by ruffian hands when smiling in its sleep.
Page 85 - Memory!— oh! supremely blest, And justly proud beyond a Poet's praise ; If the pure confines of thy tranquil breast Contain, indeed, the subject of thy lays ! By me how envied ! — for to me. The herald still of misery, Memory makes her influence known By sighs, and tears, and grief alone ; I greet her as the fiend, to whom belong The vulture's ravening beak, the raven's funeral song.
Page 90 - ... the several degrees of angels may probably have larger views, and some of them be endowed with capacities able to retain together, and constantly set before them, as in one picture, all their past knowledge at once.
Page 20 - 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 167 - Mark'd by the wild wolf for his prey, From desert cave or hanging wood. And while the torrent thunders loud, And as the echoing cliffs reply, The huts peep o'er the morning cloud, Perch'd, like an eagle's nest, on high. THE BOY OF EOREMOND. " Say, what remains when Hope is fled*'' She answer'd, " Endless weeping !" For in the herdsman's eye she read Who in his shroud lay sleeping.

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