The Works of the English Poets, Том 26Samuel Johnson C. Bathurst, 1779 |
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... empires won and loft , Relates whate'er her bufy eyes beheld , And tells the fortune of each bloody field ; While , with officious duty , crowds attend , To hail the labours of thy god - like friend , Vouchfafe the Mufe's humbler joy to ...
... empires won and loft , Relates whate'er her bufy eyes beheld , And tells the fortune of each bloody field ; While , with officious duty , crowds attend , To hail the labours of thy god - like friend , Vouchfafe the Mufe's humbler joy to ...
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... empire glow , Swell his bold heart , and urge him on the foe : With joy he reads , in every warrior's face , Some happy omen of a fure fuccefs ; Then leaps exulting on the hoftile ftrand , 80 And thinks the destin'd fceptre in his hand ...
... empire glow , Swell his bold heart , and urge him on the foe : With joy he reads , in every warrior's face , Some happy omen of a fure fuccefs ; Then leaps exulting on the hoftile ftrand , 80 And thinks the destin'd fceptre in his hand ...
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... empire , all the nobler fpoils That urge the hero , and reward his toils , Plac'd in their view , alike their hopes engage , And fire their breafts with more than mortal rage . Not lawless love , not vengeance , nor defpair , 90 95 } So ...
... empire , all the nobler fpoils That urge the hero , and reward his toils , Plac'd in their view , alike their hopes engage , And fire their breafts with more than mortal rage . Not lawless love , not vengeance , nor defpair , 90 95 } So ...
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... empire yet to come , And fix'd the fate of his imperial Rome . But oh ! what verfe , what numbers , fhall reveal Those pangs of rage and grief the vanquish'd feel ! Who fhall retreating Philip's fhame impart , And tell the anguish of ...
... empire yet to come , And fix'd the fate of his imperial Rome . But oh ! what verfe , what numbers , fhall reveal Those pangs of rage and grief the vanquish'd feel ! Who fhall retreating Philip's fhame impart , And tell the anguish of ...
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... reign , And ftretch thy empire o'er the farthest main : What transports in thy parent bosom roll'd , When fame at first the pleasing story told ! C } } 295 How How didft thou lift thy towery front on high ! ON THE QUEEN'S SUCCESS . 17.
... reign , And ftretch thy empire o'er the farthest main : What transports in thy parent bosom roll'd , When fame at first the pleasing story told ! C } } 295 How How didft thou lift thy towery front on high ! ON THE QUEEN'S SUCCESS . 17.
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Ah willow Albion's arms Atreus Atrides beneath blefs bleft blood boaſt breaſt Britain's Britannia's Britiſh brow Cæfar's cauſe charms crown diftant divine doft dreadful Ev'n eyes facred fafe faid fair fam'd fame fate fatire fceptre fcorn fear feas fecret fhade fhall fhining fhore fhould fide fight filent fing fire firft firſt fix'd flain fleep fmiling foes fome fong footh foul ftand ftill ftreams fuch fwain fweet fwell fword Gaul goddeſs gods grace hand heart heaven hecatomb hero himſelf Iliad Jove juſt kings lefs lyre maid monarch mortal Mufe Muſe muſt ne'er Nereids numbers nymph o'er paffion peace pleaſure praiſe pride prieſt race rage raiſe reign rife riſe ſhade ſhall ſhare ſhe ſhine ſhore ſkies ſmile ſpeak ſpread ſpring ſtand ſtars ſtate ſtill ſtood ſweet thee thefe theſe thine thofe thoſe thou thought thouſand verſe whofe whoſe youth
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Страница 187 - 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.
Страница 195 - Tyber's fhore, (Nor mean the tafk) each breathing buft explore, Line after line with painful patience trace, This Roman grandeur, that Athenian grace ; Vain care of parts ; if, impotent of foul, Th...
Страница 53 - The last humble boon that I crave, Is to shade me with cypress and yew; And when she looks down on my grave, Let her own that her shepherd was true. " Then to her new love let her go, And deck her in golden array, Be finest at...
Страница 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.
Страница 124 - O'er his paternal hills of snow, And into these tremendous speeches Broke forth the prophet without breeches.
Страница 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.
Страница 120 - And view the hero with insatiate eyes. ' In Haga's towers he waits, till eastern gales Propitious rise to swell the British sails. Hither the fame of England's monarch brings The vows and friendships of the neighb'ring kings; Mature in wisdom, his extensive mind Takes in the blended interests of mankind, The world's great patriot.
Страница 190 - If pensive to the rural shades I rove, His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove: Twas there of Just and Good he...
Страница 109 - Accept, great Anne, the tears their memory draws, Who nobly perish'd in their sovereign's cause : For thou in pity bid'st the war give o'er, Mourn'st thy slain heroes, nor wilt venture more. Vast price of blood on each victorious day ! (But Europe's freedom doth that price repay.) Lamented triumphs ! when one breath must tell That Marlborough conquer'd, and that Dormer fell.
Страница 200 - Midst greens and sweets, a regal fabric, stands, And sees each spring, luxuriant in her bowers, A snow of blossoms, and a wild of flowers, The dames of Britain oft in crowds repair To gravel walks, and unpolluted air. Here, while the town in damps and darkness lies, They breathe in sunshine, and see azure skies ; Each walk, with robes of various dyes bespread, Seems from afar a moving tulip-bed, Where rich brocades and glossy damasks glow, And chints, the rival of the showery bow.