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Страница 243 - How fleet is a glance of the mind ! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.
Страница 326 - Where they did all get in, Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin. Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folk so glad ; The stones did rattle underneath As if Cheapside were mad.
Страница 70 - Just knows, and knows no more, her bible true, A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew, And in that charter reads, with sparkling eyes, Her title to a treasure in the skies.
Страница 332 - Said Gilpin — So am I ! But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there ; For why? — his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware. So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong ; So did he fly — which brings me to The middle of my song.
Страница 335 - The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain, Whom in a trice he tried to stop By catching at his rein. But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, And made him faster run.
Страница 306 - Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew ; And now in the grass behold they are laid, And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. The blackbird has fled to another retreat, Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat, And the scene where his melody charm'd me before Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
Страница 330 - Well done! As loud as he could bawl. Away went Gilpin — who but he? His fame soon spread around; He carries weight! he rides a race! 'Tis for a thousand pound!
Страница 26 - ... as harmony itself exact, In verse well disciplined, complete, compact, Gave virtue and morality a grace, That, quite eclipsing pleasure's painted face, Levied a tax of wonder and applause, Even on the fools that trampled on their laws. But he (his musical finesse was such, So nice his ear, so delicate his touch) Made poetry a mere mechanic art; And every warbler has his tune by heart.