Lady's Poetical Magazine, Or Beauties of British Poetry, Том 1

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Harrison and Company, 1781
 

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Стр. 145 - customed hill, Along the heath and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he : The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
Стр. 145 - There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Стр. 149 - I have found out a gift for my fair; I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me that plunder forbear, She will say 'twas a barbarous deed...
Стр. 142 - Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, , The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
Стр. 141 - Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the Moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Стр. 145 - Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth, And melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere...
Стр. 147 - I fed on the smiles of my dear? They tell me, my favourite maid, The pride of that valley, is flown; Alas ! where with her I have stray'd, I could wander with pleasure, alone.
Стр. 142 - 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.
Стр. 148 - But with tendrils of woodbine is bound : Not a beech's more beautiful green, But a sweet-briar entwines it around. Not my fields, in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold : Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold. One would think she might like to retire To the bow'r I have labour'd to rear...
Стр. 442 - War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honour, but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying; If the world be worth thy winning, Think, O think it worth enjoying! Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee!

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