A collection of poems, by several hands [ed. by R. Dodsley].

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Страница 2 - Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the Poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave Await alike th' inevitable hour : — The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Страница 5 - One morn I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 'The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay. Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
Страница 4 - On some fond breast the parting soul relies. Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who mindful of th...
Страница 1 - THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds...
Страница 159 - The robes of pleasure and the veils of woe: All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain, Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs are vain. Such was the scorn that...
Страница 162 - Yet hope not life from grief or danger free, Nor think the doom of man revers'd for thee...
Страница 2 - For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn Or busy housewife ply her evening care : No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Страница 160 - At length his sov'reign frowns — the train of state Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate.
Страница 5 - There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Страница 260 - Our portion is not large, indeed ; But then how little do we need ! For nature's calls are few : In this the art of living lies, To want no more than may suffice, And make that little do.

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