What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
Other editions - View all
adieu beauties beneath bless blest bloude Born breast breath BROWN Canynge charms chearful crown Dæmons dear death dethe dryve dydd dyed e'er Ev'n ev'ry eyes fair fame fate flow foul fromm gentle Godde grief Grongar Hill grove haste heart heav'n hedde honour hour King kynge land Lard LEONARD WELSTED lise live Lord lyke maid mournful Muse mynde ne'er numbers nymph o'er onne pain peace Poet pow'r praise pray pride rage round scenes scorm scorn SCOT sear shade shame shew sields sire sirst smile soft song sorrow soul Speke sunne swain sweet syr Charles tears thanne thatt thee Thenne theyre thine THOMAS CHATTERTON THOMAS PENROSE thou thro thye Twas uponne Verse vile Virtue Whatte Whilst wild WILLIAM BROOME William Canyng wretch wyfe wylle wythe ynne youth ytte
Page 91 - On some fond breast the parting soul relies. Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who mindful of th...
Page 167 - But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; And as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds and led the way.
Page 166 - His house was known to all the vagrant train ; He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain...
Page 89 - For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn Or busy housewife ply her evening care : No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Page 89 - The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour : The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Page 166 - A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place.
Page 83 - That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me : with joy I see The different doom our fates assign : Be thine Despair and sceptred Care, To triumph and to die are mine.
Page 164 - In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs - and God has given my share I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose.