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Page 87 - Full little knowest thou, that hast not tried, What hell it is in suing long to bide ; To lose good days that might be better spent ; To waste long nights in pensive discontent; To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow ; To feed on hope ; to pine with fear and sorrow ; To have thy Prince's grace, yet want her peers...
Page 480 - He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves ; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. "My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," The Reaper said, and smiled; "Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child. "They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear.
Page 272 - Knowledge before — a discovery that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophy.
Page 135 - Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne, And laughs to think Monroe would take her down, Where o'er the gates, by his famed father's hand Great Gibber's brazen, brainless brothers stand ; One cell there is, conceal'd from vulgar eye, The cave of Poverty and Poetry. Keen hollow winds howl thro' the bleak recess, Emblem of music caus'd by emptiness.
Page 480 - I have nought that is fair?" saith he; "Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again." He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. "My...
Page 609 - And Esau hated Jacob because of the blessing wherewith his father blessed him : and Esau said in his heart, The days of mourning for my father are at hand ; then will I slay my brother Jacob.
Page 618 - Rialto shoot along, By night and day, all paces, swift or slow, And round the theatres, a sable throng, They wait in their dusk livery of woe ; But not to them do...
Page 86 - Enchanting vale ! beyond whate'er the Muse Has of Achaia or Hesperia sung! O vale of bliss ! O softly-swelling hills ! On which the Power of Cultivation lies, And joys to see the wonders of his toil.
Page 81 - Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar, To bid his gentle spirit rest!