The Works of the English Poets: With Prefaces, Biographical and Critical, Том 55

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Samuel Johnson
C. Bathurst, 1779
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Страница 82 - The powers of man; we feel within ourselves His energy divine; he tells the heart, He meant, he made us to behold and love What he beholds and loves, the general orb Of life and being; to be great like him, Beneficent and active.
Страница 114 - Decrees its province in the common toil. To some she taught the fabric of the sphere, The changeful moon, the circuit of the stars, The golden zones of heaven ; to some she gave To weigh the moment of eternal things, Of time...
Страница 20 - Maker said, That not in humble nor in brief delight, Not in the fading echoes of Renown, Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap, The...
Страница 312 - The language of our fathers. Here he dwelt For many a cheerful day. These ancient walls Have often heard him, while his legends blithe He sang; of love, or knighthood, or the wiles Of homely life; through each estate and age, The fashions and the follies of the world With cunning hand portraying.
Страница 82 - The world's foundations* if to these the mind Exalts her daring eye ; then mightier far Will be the change, and nobler.
Страница 314 - Who walk'd in every path of human life, Felt every passion ; and to all mankind Doth now, will ever, that experience yield...
Страница 289 - Nymphs, from my delighted lyre, Accept the rites your bounty well may claim ; Nor heed the scoffings of the Edonian band.
Страница 19 - She darts her swiftness up the long career Of devious comets ; through its burning signs Exulting measures the perennial wheel Of Nature, and looks back on all the stars, Whose blended light, as with a milky zone, Invests the orient. Now amazed she views The empyreal waste...
Страница 226 - Such rites, which they with Spring renew, The eyes of care can never view ; And care hath long been mine : And hence offended with their guest, Since grief of love my soul oppress'd, They hide their toils divine.
Страница 18 - And continents of sand, will turn his gaze To mark the windings of a scanty rill That murmurs at his feet?