The Seasons

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T. Longman, 1793 - Seasons - 272 pages
 

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Page 236 - ... they dance along, How many feel, this very moment, death And all the sad variety of pain. How many sink in the devouring flood, Or more devouring flame.
Page 271 - Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound his stupendous praise whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall.
Page 234 - Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain: Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid Beneath the formless wild; but wanders on From hill to dale, still more and more astray; Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth In many a vain attempt.
Page 232 - Father of light and life, thou Good Supreme ! O teach me what is good ; teach me Thyself! Save me from folly, vanity, and vice, From every low pursuit; and feed my soul With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure; Sacred, substantial, never-fading bliss...
Page 43 - Sits on the horizon round a settled gloom : Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed, Oppressing life ; but lovely, gentle, kind, And full of every hope and every joy, The wish of nature.
Page 261 - Who, here entangled in the gathering ice, Take their last look of the descending sun; While, full of death, and fierce with tenfold frost, The long long night, incumbent o'er their heads, Falls horrible. Such was the Briton's * fate, As with first prow (what have not Britons dared!) He for the passage sought, attempted since So much in vain, and seeming to be shut By jealous Nature with eternal bars.
Page 174 - Acasto's line ; and to my mind Recalls that patron of my happy life, From whom my liberal fortune took its rise; Now to the dust gone down ; his houses, lands, And once fair-spreading family, dissolved.
Page 82 - Delightful task! to rear the tender thought, To teach the young idea how to shoot...
Page 102 - Urg'd to the giddy brink, much is the toil, The clamour much, of men, and boys, and dogs, Ere the soft fearful people to the flood Commit their woolly sides.
Page 236 - Ah little think they, while they dance along, How many feel, this very moment, death And all the sad variety of pain.

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