The Works of the English Poets: With Prefaces, Biographical and Critical, Volume 26

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Populaire passages

Pagina 189 - Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, A task well suited to thy gentle mind? Oh ! if sometimes thy spotless form descend : To me, thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend ! When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, And turn from ill, a frail and feeble heart ; Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.
Pagina 192 - Nor think him all thy own. To-morrow, in the church to wed, Impatient, both prepare ! But know, fond maid ; and know, false man, That Lucy will be there!
Pagina 206 - The Sun's meridian rays Veil the horizon in one mighty blaze : Nor moon nor star in Heaven's blue arch is seen With kindly rays to silver o'er the green, Grateful to fairy eyes ; they secret take Their rest, and only wretched mortals wake.
Pagina 36 - Oak, fo much of old renown'd? How many worthy gentlemen of late Swore to be true to Mother-church and State ; When their falfe Hearts...
Pagina 193 - When, stretch'd before her rival's corse, She saw her husband dead. Then to his Lucy's new-made grave, Convey'd by trembling swains, One mould with her, beneath one sod, For ever he remains.
Pagina 97 - Through the new pupil fosf ring juices flow, Thrust forth the gems, and give the flowers to blow ; Aloft, immortal reigns the plant unknown, With borrow'd life, and vigour not his own.'* 'TO THE SPECTATOR GENERAL.
Pagina 51 - To forsake the fine folk of the town ! To think that a beauty so gay, So kind and so constant...
Pagina 205 - To red-cheek'd fweet-hearts in their home-fpun gowns. All in a lawn of many a various hue, A bed of flowers (a fairy foreft) grew; 'Twas here one noon, the gaudieft of the May, The ftill, the fecret, filent hour of day, Beneath a lofty tulip's ample made Sate the young lover and th
Pagina 187 - Addison unpaid, Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, And judge, Oh judge, my bosom by your own. What mourner ever felt poetic fires ! Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires : Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.
Pagina 192 - The solemn boding sound, And thus in dying words bespoke The virgins weeping round...

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