Poems

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T. Cadell and W. Davies, 1816 - English poetry - 246 pages
 

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Page 100 - Oh ! she was good as she was fair. None — none on earth above her ! As pure in thought as angels are, To know her was to love her. When little, and her eyes, her voice, Her every gesture said
Page 10 - 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. Each, as the various avenues of sense Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense, Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art, Controul the latent fibres of the heart.
Page 34 - 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 118 - Go — you may call it madness, folly ; You shall not chase my gloom away. There's such a charm in melancholy, I would not, if I could, be gay.
Page 152 - That breathe a gale of fragrance round, I charm the fairy-footed hours With my loved lute's romantic sound ; Or crowns of living laurel weave, For those that win the race at eve. The shepherd's horn at break of day, The ballet...
Page 67 - And cheaply circulates, through distant climes, The fairest relics of the purest times. Here from the mould to conscious being start Those finer forms, the miracles of art ; Here chosen gems, imprest on sulphur, shine, That slept for ages in a second mine ; And here the faithful graver dares to trace A Michael's grandeur, and a Raphael's grace ! Thy gallery, Florence, gilds my humble walls ; And my low roof the Vatican recalls...
Page 150 - 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.
Page 18 - Hark! the bee winds her small but mellow horn,' Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn. O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course. And many a stream allures her to its source. Tis noon, 'tis night. That eye so finely wrought, Beyond the search of sense, the soar of thought, Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind; Its orb so full, its vision so confin'd!
Page 46 - A ming^d gleam of hope and triumph shed, What to thy soul its glad assurance gave, Its hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave? The sweet Remembrance...
Page 18 - With looks that asked, yet dared not hope relief, Want with her babes round generous Valour clung, To wring the slow surrender from his tongue, 'Twas thine to animate her closing eye ; .> Alas ! 'twas thine perchance the first to die, > Crushed by her meagre hand when welcomed from j the sky.

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