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Стр. 58 - Yet simple Nature to his hope has given, Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heaven; Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, Some happier island in the watery waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. To Be, contents his natural desire, He asks no Angel's wing, no Seraph's fire; But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company.
Стр. 478 - Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place: The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnished clock that clicked behind the door: The chest contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day...
Стр. 210 - The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armour against fate ; Death lays his icy hand on kings : Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Стр. 126 - Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass, Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, A torch at the great temple's dedication. I need not ask thee if that hand, when...
Стр. 127 - And standest undecayed within our presence, Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment morning, When the great Trump shall thrill thee with its warning! Why should this worthless tegument endure, If its undying guest be lost for ever ? O let us keep the soul embalmed and pure In living virtue ; that, when both must sever.
Стр. 126 - How the world looked when it was fresh and young, And the great Deluge still had left it green — Or was it then so old, that History's pages Contained no record of its early ages ? Still silent, incommunicative elf ? Art sworn to secrecy...
Стр. 164 - Their breath is agitation, and their life A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, That should their days surviving perils past, Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast With sorrow and supineness, and so die; Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste With its own flickering, or a sword laid by, Which...
Стр. 172 - It ceased ; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.
Стр. 439 - Thou shalt ° not muzzle the ox when he treadeth out the corn.
Стр. 58 - Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind: His soul, proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk or Milky Way: Yet simple Nature to his hope has given. Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heaven...