The Works of the English Poets: Lyttelton; West; Gray

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Page 335 - Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Page 363 - Hoarse he bays with hideous din, Eyes that glow, and fangs that grin : And long pursues, with fruitless yell, The father of the powerful spell.
Page 353 - Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes: Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm: Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey.
Page 346 - This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year : Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy ! This can unlock the gates of Joy ; Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.
Page 323 - O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the crowd ! How low, how little, are the proud ! How indigent the great...
Page 71 - Rough mountain oaks and defart rocks, to pity move. XV. What were, alas ! thy woes compar'd to mine ? To thee thy miftrefs in the blifsful band Of Hymen never gave her hand; The joys of wedded love were never thine. In thy...
Page 344 - Man's feeble race what ills await ! Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of fate ! The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove.
Page 351 - And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. ' Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave, Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! O'er thee, oh King ! their hundred arms they wave. Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.
Page 334 - Thy form benign, oh goddess, wear, Thy milder influence impart, Thy philosophic train be there To soften, not to wound, my heart. The generous spark extinct revive Teach me to love, and to forgive, Exact my own defects to scan, What others are to feel, and know myself a Man.
Page 347 - Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban Eagle bear Sailing with supreme dominion Thro' the azure deep of air: Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's...

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