Aeneidea, or Critical, exegetical, and aesthetical remarks on the Aeneis [ed. by J.F. Davies and others]. 4 vols. [and] Indices, Volume 3; Volume 6

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1881
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Page 298 - E'en in our Ashes live their wonted Fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say, 'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
Page 388 - The Niobe of nations, — there she stands, Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe ; An empty urn within her withered hands, Whose holy dust was scattered long ago ; The Scipios...
Page 447 - No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.
Page 389 - She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers...
Page 114 - To the ocean now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad fields of the sky. There I suck the liquid air, All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree.
Page 161 - Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude ; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude.
Page 114 - The insect youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honied spring, And float amid the liquid noon: Some lightly o'er the current skim, Some show their gaily-gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun.
Page 97 - OLD King Cole was a merry old soul, And a merry old soul was he; He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three.
Page 578 - Anon they move In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood Of flutes and soft recorders...
Page 254 - To shake the sounding marsh; or from the shore The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath, And sing their wild notes to the listening waste. At last from Aries rolls the bounteous sun, And the bright Bull receives him. Then no more Th...

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