The Task

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J. Sharpe, 1825 - English poetry - 220 pages
 

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Page 154 - Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge a rude unprofitable mass, The mere materials with which wisdom builds, Till smoothed, and squared, and fitted to its place, Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich.
Page 121 - The cheerful haunts of man ; to wield the axe And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, From morn to eve his solitary task.
Page 135 - Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume, And we are weeds without it. All constraint, Except what wisdom lays on evil men, Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes Their progress in the road of science; blinds The eyesight of Discovery; and begets, In those that suffer it, a sordid mind Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit To be the tenant of man's noble form.
Page 157 - And of an humbler growth, the other tall, And throwing up into the darkest gloom Of neighbouring cypress or more sable yew Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf That the wind severs from the broken wave ; The lilac, various in array, now white, Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set With purple spikes pyramidal, as if Studious of ornament, yet unresolved Which hue she most approved, she chose them all...
Page 65 - My panting side was charged, when I withdrew To seek a tranquil death in distant shades.
Page 144 - His to enjoy, With a propriety that none can feel But who, with filial confidence inspired, Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye, And smiling say —
Page 125 - Some seek diversion in the tented field, And make the sorrows of mankind their sport. But war's a game which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.
Page 14 - Here the gray smooth trunks Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine Within the twilight of their distant shades ; There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood Seems sunk, and shorten'd to its topmost boughs. No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar...
Page 144 - They lived unknown Till Persecution dragg'd them into fame, And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew — No marble tells us whither. With their names No bard embalms and sanctifies his song : And history, so warm on meaner themes, Is cold on this.
Page 92 - And having dropped the expected bag — pass on. He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, Cold and yet cheerful : messenger of grief Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some, To him indifferent whether grief or joy...

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