« ПредишнаНапред »
CONTENTS TO VOL. I. PART IL
(QUEEN ANN.) THOMAS PARNELL. 1679–1717. Page The Hermit
217 A Night-Piece on Death
• 294 A Hymn to Contentment
226 A Fairy Tale
228 Health.--An Eclogue
234 The Flies---An Eclogue
236 An Allegory on Man
238 JOHN PHILLIPS. 1676–1708. The Splendid Shilling
241 JOSEPH ADDISON. 1672–1719. A Letter from Italy
245 To Sir Godfrey Kneller
249 A Song for St. Cecilia's Day
• 252 An Hymn
254 NICHOLAS ROWE. 1673---1718. Colin's Complaint.--A Song
255 DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 1649---1721. An Essay on Poetry
257 MATTHEW PRIOR. 1664--1721. Alma
266 Henry and Emma
• 309 The Lady's Looking-Glass
329 Chloe Hunting
• 330 The Garland The Despairing Shepherd
332 Her right Name
. 333 Ode to Howard
in a wild, unknown to public view, From youth to age a reverend Hermit grew, The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well, Remote from man, with God he pass'd his days, Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.
A life so sacred, such serene repose, Seem'd Heaven itself, till one suggestion roseThat vice should triumph, virtue vice obey; This spring some doubt of Providence's sway: His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, And all the tenor of his soul is lost. So when a smooth expanse receives imprest Calm nature's image on its watery breast, Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, And skies beneath with answering colours glow; But if a stone the gentle sea divide, Swift rushing circles curl on every side, And glimmering fragments of a broken sun: Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run.
To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight, To find if books, or swains report it right Vol. I.
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew,
The morn was wasted in the pathless grass,
Now sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day Came onward, mantled o'er with sober grey; Nature in silence bid the world repose : When near the road a stately palace rose : There, by the moon, thro' ranks of trees they pass, Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides of grass. It chanc'd the noble master of the dome Still made his house the wandering stranger's home; Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, Prov'd the vain flourish of expensive ease. The pair arrive: the liveried servants wait; Their lord receives them at the pompous gate. The table groans with costly piles of food, And all is more than hospitably good. Then, led to rest, the day's long toil they drown, Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down.
At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day Along the wide canals the zephyrs play; Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep.