The village curate, and other poems

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Vernor, Hood, and Sharpe, 1810 - 315 pages
 

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Page 113 - Tunes her nocturnal note : thus with the year Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine...
Page 43 - A bird's nest. Mark it well ! — within, without ; No tool had he that wrought — no knife to cut, No nail to fix — no bodkin to insert — No glue to join ; his little beak was all. And yet how neatly finished ! What nice hand. With every implement and means of art, And twenty years...
Page 33 - Not a tree, A plant, a leaf, a blossom, but contains A folio volume. We may read, and read, And read again, and still find something new, Something to please, and something to instruct, E'en in the noisome weed.
Page 113 - Yet not the more Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, Smit with the love of sacred song...
Page xxiii - Shakspeare, occasioned by reading Mr. Malone's Essay on the chronological Order of those celebrated Pieces* Mr.
Page 18 - s destructive to the hue Of every flower that blows. Go to the field, And ask the humble daisy why it sleeps Soon as the sun departs : Why close the eyes Of blossoms infinite, ere the still moon Her oriental veil puts off?
Page 135 - Then to town Hies the gay spark, for futile purposes, And deeds my bashful muse disclaims to name ; From town to college, till a fresh supply Sends him again from college up to town. The tedious interval, the mace and cue, The tennis-court and racket, the slow lounge From street to street, the badger-hunt, the race, The raffle, the excursion, and the dance, Ices and soups, dice, and the bet at whist, Serve well enough to fill. Grievous...
Page 40 - But mark with how peculiar grace yon wood, That clothes the weary steep, waves in the breeze Her sea of leaves ; thither we turn our steps, And by the way attend the cheerful sound Of woodland harmony, that always fills The merry vale between.
Page xxvi - Poet and Divine ! A tender sanctity of thought was thine. To thee no sculptur'd tomb could prove so dear. As the fond tribute of a sister's tear ; For earth, who shelters in her vast embrace The sleeping myriads of the mortal race, No heart in all that multitude has known, Whose love fraternal could surpass thy own.
Page 19 - Oh ! there is a charm That morning has, that gives the brow of age A smack of youth, and makes the lip of youth Breathe per'fumes exquisite. Expect it not, Ye who till noon upon a down-bed lie, Indulging feverish sleep ; or wakeful, dream Of happiness no mortal heart has felt, But in the regions of romance'.

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