The British Poets: Including Translations ...

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C. Whittingham, 1822
 

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Стр. 85 - THE dews of summer night did fall ; The moon, sweet regent of the sky, Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall, And many an oak that grew thereby.
Стр. 88 - s their estate ; To smile for joy than sigh for woe, To be content than to be great. " How far less blest am I than them ! Daily to pine and waste with care, Like the poor plant, that, from its stem Divided, feels the chilling air.
Стр. 223 - May numerous herds and flocks be seen: And lasses chanting o'er the pail, And shepherds piping in the dale; And ancient faith that knows no guile, And industry embrown'd with toil; And hearts resolved and hands prepared The blessings they enjoy to guard ! MARK AKENSIDE.
Стр. 226 - THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND. Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn ! Thy sons, for valour long renown'd, Lie slaughter'd on their native ground. Thy hospitable roofs no more Invite the stranger to the door; In smoky ruins sunk they lie, The monuments of cruelty.
Стр. 87 - Rather ambition's gilded crown Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. "Then, Leicester, why, again I plead (The injured surely may repine) — Why didst thou wed a country maid, When some fair princess might be thine?
Стр. 86 - No lark more blithe, no flower more gay; And like the bird that haunts the thorn, So merrily sung the livelong day. " If that my beauty is but small, Among court ladies all despised, Why didst thou rend it from that hall, Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized?
Стр. 198 - A very little above its source, on the lake, stands the house of Cameron, belonging to Mr. Smollett, so embosomed in an oak wood, that we did not see it till we were within fifty yards of the door.
Стр. 222 - On Leven's banks, while free to rove, And tune the rural pipe to love; I envied not the happiest swain That ever trod th' Arcadian plain. Pure stream! in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave; No torrents stain thy limpid source; No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread...
Стр. 92 - I'll to the quay And see him come ashore. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a', There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa. And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop's satin gown; For I maun tell the bailie's wife That Colin's come to town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My stockings pearly blue; It's a' to pleasure my gudeman, For he's baith leel and true.
Стр. 255 - LET the nymph still avoid and be deaf to the swain Who in transports of passion affects to complain, For his rage, not his love, in that frenzy is shown, And the blast that blows loudest is soon overblown.

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