Translations Into English and Latin

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Deighton, 1866 - English poetry - 279 pages

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Page 224 - Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Page 188 - Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Page 190 - And all their echoes, mourn: The willows and the hazel copses green Shall now no more be seen Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays : — As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear When first the white-thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.
Page 212 - IF all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love.
Page 202 - Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves Where other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And hears th' unexpressive nuptial song, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
Page 210 - And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.
Page 206 - Druid, hoary chief; every burning word he spoke full of rage, and full of grief: ' Princess ! if our aged eyes weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'tis because resentment ties all the terrors of our tongues. ' Rome shall perish — write that word in the blood that she has spilt ; perish, hopeless and abhorred, deep in ruin as in guilt.
Page 198 - The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread; Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said. But that two-handed engine at the door 130 Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
Page 186 - Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Page 238 - Tis brightness all ; save where the new snow melts Along the mazy current. Low the woods Bow their hoar head ; and ere the languid sun, Faint from the west, emits his evening ray, Earth's universal face, deep hid and chill, Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide The works of man.

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