The Works of the English Poets, Том 26Samuel Johnson C. Bathurst, 1779 |
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Страница 13
... flow , Nor wish for crowns , but what thy groves beftow . Me , nymph divine ! nor fcorn my humble prayer , Receive unworthy , to thy kinder care , Doom'd to a gentler , though more lowly , fate , Nor wifhing once , nor knowing to be ...
... flow , Nor wish for crowns , but what thy groves beftow . Me , nymph divine ! nor fcorn my humble prayer , Receive unworthy , to thy kinder care , Doom'd to a gentler , though more lowly , fate , Nor wifhing once , nor knowing to be ...
Страница 14
... flow , his drowfy head he rear'd , And heavily the facred meffage heard ; Then with a yawn at once forgot the pain , And funk to his first sloth and indolence again . But oh , my Mufe ! th ' ungrateful toil forfake , Some task more ...
... flow , his drowfy head he rear'd , And heavily the facred meffage heard ; Then with a yawn at once forgot the pain , And funk to his first sloth and indolence again . But oh , my Mufe ! th ' ungrateful toil forfake , Some task more ...
Страница 21
... flow unactive courts , they grieve to hear Eugene , a name to every Briton dear , By tedious languishing delays is held Repining , and impatient , from the field : While factious ftatefmen riot in excess , And lazy priests whole ...
... flow unactive courts , they grieve to hear Eugene , a name to every Briton dear , By tedious languishing delays is held Repining , and impatient , from the field : While factious ftatefmen riot in excess , And lazy priests whole ...
Страница 22
... flow bounties of a foreign court . Forc'd from his lov'd Turin , his last retreat , His glory once and empire's ancient feat , He fees from far where wide destructions spread , And fiery showers the goodly town invade , Then turns to ...
... flow bounties of a foreign court . Forc'd from his lov'd Turin , his last retreat , His glory once and empire's ancient feat , He fees from far where wide destructions spread , And fiery showers the goodly town invade , Then turns to ...
Страница 26
... flow , which in thy verse do shine ? With what strange infpiration art thou bleft , What more than Delphic ardour warms thy breaft ? Our fordid earth ne er bred fo bright a flame , But from the fkies , thy kindred fkies , it came . To ...
... flow , which in thy verse do shine ? With what strange infpiration art thou bleft , What more than Delphic ardour warms thy breaft ? Our fordid earth ne er bred fo bright a flame , But from the fkies , thy kindred fkies , it came . To ...
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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.