The Works of the English Poets: YoungH. Hughs, 1779 |
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... fire ; Canft thou , O Night ! indulge one labour more ? One labour more indulge ! then fleep , my ftrain ! Till , haply , wak'd by Raphael's golden lyre , Where night , death , age , care , crime , and forrow , cease ; To bear a part in ...
... fire ; Canft thou , O Night ! indulge one labour more ? One labour more indulge ! then fleep , my ftrain ! Till , haply , wak'd by Raphael's golden lyre , Where night , death , age , care , crime , and forrow , cease ; To bear a part in ...
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... spirit mounts on wings of fire ; Each element partakes our scatter'd spoils ; As nature , wide , our ruins fpread : man's death 75 80 85 90 95 100 Inhabits 105 Inhabits all things , but the thought of man YOUNG'S POEM S.
... spirit mounts on wings of fire ; Each element partakes our scatter'd spoils ; As nature , wide , our ruins fpread : man's death 75 80 85 90 95 100 Inhabits 105 Inhabits all things , but the thought of man YOUNG'S POEM S.
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... fire , 140 145 150 155 Eruptions , earthquakes , comets , lightnings , play 160 Their various engines ; all at once difgorge Their blazing magazines ; and take , by storm , This poor terreftrial citadel of man . Amazing period ! when ...
... fire , 140 145 150 155 Eruptions , earthquakes , comets , lightnings , play 160 Their various engines ; all at once difgorge Their blazing magazines ; and take , by storm , This poor terreftrial citadel of man . Amazing period ! when ...
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... fire ; Far other fun ! -A fun , O how unlike The Babe at Bethlem ! how unlike the Man , That groan'd on Calvary ! -Yet He it is ; 165 170 175 That Man of forrows ! O how chang'd ! what pomp ! In grandeur terrible , all heaven defcends ...
... fire ; Far other fun ! -A fun , O how unlike The Babe at Bethlem ! how unlike the Man , That groan'd on Calvary ! -Yet He it is ; 165 170 175 That Man of forrows ! O how chang'd ! what pomp ! In grandeur terrible , all heaven defcends ...
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... fire ! All nature ftruggling in the pangs of death ! Doft thou not hear her ? Doft thou not deplore Her ftrong convulfions , and her final groan ? Where are we now ? Ah me ! the ground is gone , On which we stood ; Lorenzo ! while thou ...
... fire ! All nature ftruggling in the pangs of death ! Doft thou not hear her ? Doft thou not deplore Her ftrong convulfions , and her final groan ? Where are we now ? Ah me ! the ground is gone , On which we stood ; Lorenzo ! while thou ...
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Æther art thou beams beneath blefs blifs boaft boaſt boundleſs breaſt Britain Britain's Britannia's caufe cauſe Codrus darkneſs death defcend diftant divine dread earth eternal facred fafe fame fate fatire fcene feas feen fenfe fhall fhine fhould fing firſt fkies flain flame fleep fmile fome fong fons forrow foul fpirits ftars ftill ftreams ftrike fublime fuch fwell genius glorious glory gods golden heart heaven human immortal juſt laſt lefs Lorenzo luftre man's mankind mighty moft mortal moſt Mufe Muſe muſt nature's ne'er night numbers o'er paffion pain paſt peace Pindar pleaſure praife praiſe prefent pride profe proud raiſe reafon refign'd reigns rife ſcene ſhall ſhine ſkies ſmall ſmile ſphere ſpread ſtand ſtars ſtate ſtill ſtorm thee thefe theſe thine thofe thoſe thou thought thouſand throne thunder Trade virtue Voltaire whofe Whoſe wing wiſdom
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Страница 6 - By the loud trumpet summon'd to the charge, See, all the formidable sons of fire, Eruptions, earthquakes, comets, lightnings, play Their various engines ; all at once disgorge Their blazing magazines ; and take, by storm, This poor terrestrial citadel of man.
Страница 4 - What is the world itself? thy world — a grave. Where is the dust that has not been alive ? The spade, the plough, disturb our ancestors. From human mould we reap our daily bread. The globe around earth's hollow surface shakes, And is the ceiling of her sleeping sons. O'er devastation we blind revels keep : Whole buried towns support the dancer's heel.
Страница 74 - Man's rich restorative ; his balmy bath, That supples, lubricates, and keeps in play The various movements of this nice machine, Which asks such frequent periods of repair. When tir'd with vain rotations of the day, Sleep winds us up for the succeeding dawn ; Fresh we spin on, till sickness clogs our wheels, Or Death quite breaks the spring, and motion ends.
Страница 1 - Then cheers his heart with what his fate affords, And chants his sonnet to deceive the time, Till the due season calls him to repose : Thus I...
Страница 205 - If satire charms, strike faults, but spare the man : 'Tis dull to be as witty as you can. Satire recoils whenever charg'd too high ; Round your own fame the fatal splinters fly. As the soft plume gives swiftness to the dart, Good breeding sends the satire to the heart.
Страница 214 - In aweful ruin, like Rome's fenate, fall, The prey and worfhip of the wondering Gaul. No doubt, to genius fome reward is due, (Excluding that, were fatirizing you ;) But yet, believe thy undefigning friend, When truth and genius for thy choice contend, Though both have weight when in the balance caft, Let probity be firft, and parts the laft.
Страница 50 - Who bid brute matter's restive lump assume Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly ? Has matter innate motion ! Then each atom, Asserting its indisputable right To dance, would form an universe of dust.
Страница 8 - From tenfold darkness ; sudden as the spark From smitten steel; from nitrous grain, the blaze. Man, starting from his couch, shall sleep no more ! The day is broke, which never more shall close...
Страница 26 - From urns unnumber'd, down the steep of heaven, Streams to a point, and centres in my sight ! Nor tarries there ; I feel it at my heart. My heart, at once, it humbles, and exalts; Lays it in dust, and calls it to the skies.
Страница 9 - Heaven opens in their bosoms : but how rare, Ah me ! that magnanimity, how rare ! What hero, like the man who stands himself; Who dares to meet his naked heart alone ; Who hears, intrepid, the full charge it brings, Resolv'd to silence future murmurs there ? The coward flies- and, flying, is undone. (Art thou a coward ? no :) the coward flies ; Thinks, but thinks slightly ; asks, but fears to know : Asks