The British Poets: Including Translations ...

C. Whittingham, 1822
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Página 74 - And that through every stage ; when young, indeed, In full content we sometimes nobly rest, Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. At thirty man suspects himself a fool ; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; At fifty chides his infamous delay, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; In all the magnanimity of thought Resolves and re-resolves; then dies the same.
Página 63 - How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man...
Página 87 - Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours And ask them, what report they bore to heaven ; And how they might have borne more welcome news.
Página 137 - Faith builds a bridge across the gulf of death, To break the shock blind nature cannot shun, And lands thought smoothly on the farther shore.
Página 64 - An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust ! Helpless immortal ! insect infinite ! A worm ! a God ! — I tremble at myself, And in myself am lost.
Página 66 - Here pinions all his wishes : wing'd by heaven To fly at infinite, and reach it there, Where seraphs gather immortality, On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God.
Página 65 - This is the desert, this the solitude : How populous, how vital, is the grave! This is creation's melancholy vault, The vale funereal, the sad cypress gloom ; The land of apparitions, empty shades ! All, all on earth is shadow, all beyond Is substance ; the reverse is folly's creed?
Página 11 - It tells her, that his only title to the great honour he now does himself is the obligation which he formerly received from her royal indulgence. 'Of this obligation nothing is now known, unless he alluded to her being his godmother. He is said indeed to have been engaged at a settled stipend as a writer for the court. In Swift's Rhapsody on Poetry...
Página 66 - Where time, and pain, and chance, and death, expire! And is it in the flight of threescore years, To push eternity from human thought, «And smother souls immortal in the dust? A soul immortal, spending all her fires, Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness, Thrown into tumult, raptured, or alarm'd, At aught this scene can threaten or indulge, Resembles ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.
Página 61 - TIRED Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep ! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where Fortune smiles ; the wretched he forsakes ; Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, And lights on lids unsullied with a tear.

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