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angels arms art thou behold beneath blessed bliss boast book of Job bright charms clouds crown Dagon dark death deep delight divine Don Carlos dost dread earth Eclogue eternal fair fame fate father fear fire flame give glorious glory gods grace hand happy hast hath hear heart Heaven hell honour hope human immortal king labour light live Lord Lorenzo Lycidas lyre mankind mighty Milton mind mortal Muse Nature Nature's ne'er night numbers nymph o'er pain Paradise Paradise Lost passion peace Pindar pleasure praise pride proud rage reign rise Rome round sacred Satan scene shade shine sight skies smile Son of God song soon soul spirit stars sublime sweet taste tears tempest thee thine things thought throne thunder truth virtue Voltaire winds wing wisdom wise wonder
Page 16 - And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. So much the rather thou, celestial Light, Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Irradiate ; there plant eyes, all mist from thence Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight.
Page 44 - E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn...
Page 44 - Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply ; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a...
Page 44 - Await, alike, the inevitable hour : The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud ! impute to these the fault, If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, . Or flattery sooth the dull, cold ear of death...
Page 153 - 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. Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear Compels me to disturb your season due; For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
Page 150 - Through the high wood echoing shrill : Sometime walking, not unseen, By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate Where the great Sun begins his state Robed in flames and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; While the ploughman, near at hand, ' Whistles o'er the furrowed land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale.
Page 152 - And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.
Page 150 - With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask and antique pageantry; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
Page 158 - Piedmontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills and they To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple Tyrant ; that from these may grow A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
Page 144 - This is the month, and this the happy morn Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.