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ANTISTROPHE appear bard beneath boast bosom breast breath brow Cacus call'd Callimachus companion Cowper Damon death deem'd delight Dereham destin'd divine Dryope Dunham Lodge Eartham East Dereham EPITAPH ev'n ev'ry eyes fair fame Faunus flow'rs friendship gentle GEORGE ROMNEY grace grove hand Happisburgh happy hast Hayley heart Heav'n Homer honour hope Iliad Inner Temple John Throckmorton Jove kind kinsman labour Lady Austen Lady Hesketh lambs length letter lyre Mary mind morning Muse ne'er never night num'rous numbers nymphs o'er once pain Pallas Philomela Phoebus poem Poet pow'r praise prove rest Rose scarcely scene seek your home shade shore sight skies SONETTO song SONNET soon spirits sweet tears thee theme thine thou thoughts are due translation Twas Unwin verse VINCENT BOURNE Weston William Hayley wish worth write youth
Стр. xiii - Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Стр. 237 - And still to love, though prest with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary ! But ah ! by constant heed I know How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary ! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last — My Mary ! W.
Стр. 237 - Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary ! For, could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see ? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary ! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign ; Yet, gently prest, press gently mine, My Mary...
Стр. 244 - Whate'er they gave, should visit more. Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he Their haste himself condemn, Aware that flight, in such a sea, Alone could rescue them; Yet bitter felt it still to die Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
Стр. 236 - T was my distress that brought thee low, My Mary ! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more ; My Mary ! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still...
Стр. 236 - Mary ! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary!
Стр. 68 - His sword was in its sheath; His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes ! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again Full charged with England's thunder; And plough the distant main. But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er ; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more.
Стр. 245 - No poet wept him ; but the page Of narrative sincere, That tells his name, his worth, his age, Is wet with Anson's tear: And tears by bards or heroes shed Alike immortalize the dead. I therefore purpose not, or dream, Descanting on his fate, To give the melancholy theme A more enduring date : But misery still delights to trace Its semblance in another's case.