The Wreath: A Collection of Poems from Celebrated English Authors

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Silas Andrus, 1824 - 243 страници
 

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Страница 178 - Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Such is the patriot's boast where'er we roam ; His first, best country, ever is at home. And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, And estimate the blessings which they share, Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind : As different good, by art or nature given To different nations, makes their blessings even.
Страница 126 - E'en in our Ashes live their wonted Fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
Страница 224 - I care not, fortune, what you me deny : You cannot rob me of free nature's grace ; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her brightening face ; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave : Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.
Страница 164 - The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; And let me catch it as I muse along. Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze Along the vale; and thou, majestic main, A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound His stupendous praise, whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall.
Страница 123 - Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre...
Страница 126 - 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 churchway path we saw him borne, — Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
Страница 100 - A solemn, strange, and mingled air : 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. But thou, O Hope ! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure ! Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail...
Страница 122 - 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 ; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Страница 164 - Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring ; Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; Feeds every creature; hurls the tempest forth ; And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, With transport touches all the springs of life.
Страница 163 - Shoots full perfection through the swelling year; And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks: And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined, And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In Winter awful thou ! with clouds and storms Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd, Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing ' Riding sublime, thou bid'st the world adore, And humblest nature with thy northern blast.

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