English Poets of the Eighteenth CenturyErnest Bernbaum C. Scribner's Sons, 1918 - Всего страниц: 364 |
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Стр. xvi
... MUSES ( 1783 ) • INTRODUCTION TO SONGS OF INNOCENCE ( 1789 ) THE LAMB ( 1789 ) . THE LITTLE BLACK Box ( 1789 ) A CRADLE SONG ( 1789 ) HOLY THURSDAY ( 1789 ) 317 · 319 319 320 · 320 321 322 • 322 323 THE DIVINE IMAGE ( 1789 ) ON ...
... MUSES ( 1783 ) • INTRODUCTION TO SONGS OF INNOCENCE ( 1789 ) THE LAMB ( 1789 ) . THE LITTLE BLACK Box ( 1789 ) A CRADLE SONG ( 1789 ) HOLY THURSDAY ( 1789 ) 317 · 319 319 320 · 320 321 322 • 322 323 THE DIVINE IMAGE ( 1789 ) ON ...
Стр. xxxvi
... Muse was to be the mood of the moment . Herein he brought to fulfillment the sentimental desire for the libera- tion of the emotions ; but his work , taken as a whole , can scarcely be said to vindicate the faith that the emotions ...
... Muse was to be the mood of the moment . Herein he brought to fulfillment the sentimental desire for the libera- tion of the emotions ; but his work , taken as a whole , can scarcely be said to vindicate the faith that the emotions ...
Стр. 9
... they would have feared to pass , Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bands When her proud foe ranged on their borders stands . But , O my Muse , what numbers wilt thou JOSEPH ADDISON 9 JOSEPH ADDISON THE CAMPAIGN (1704), ll 259–292.
... they would have feared to pass , Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bands When her proud foe ranged on their borders stands . But , O my Muse , what numbers wilt thou JOSEPH ADDISON 9 JOSEPH ADDISON THE CAMPAIGN (1704), ll 259–292.
Стр. 10
Ernest Bernbaum. But , O my Muse , what numbers wilt thou find To sing the furious troops in battle joined ! Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound The victor's shouts and dying groans confound , The dreadful burst of cannon rend ...
Ernest Bernbaum. But , O my Muse , what numbers wilt thou find To sing the furious troops in battle joined ! Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound The victor's shouts and dying groans confound , The dreadful burst of cannon rend ...
Стр. 24
... Muses upward to their spring . Still with itself compared , his text peruse ; And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse . When first young Maro in his boundless mind A work t ' outlast immortal Rome designed , Perhaps he seemed above the ...
... Muses upward to their spring . Still with itself compared , his text peruse ; And let your comment be the Mantuan Muse . When first young Maro in his boundless mind A work t ' outlast immortal Rome designed , Perhaps he seemed above the ...
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AUGUSTUS MONTAGU TOPLADY auld auld lang syne bard beauty beneath blessed blest bliss breast breath charms clouds crown dear delight divine dread e'er earth eternal fair fame fancy fate fear Fingal flowers folly fools frae gale grace grave Grongar Hill hand happy hear heart Heaven hill human JOHN GILBERT COOPER king labour live Lubberkin lyre Matthew Prior mind moral murmurs Muse nature Nature's ne'er never night numbers nymph o'er Ossian pain passions peace plain pleasing pleasure poet poor praise pride proud rage raptures RICHARD JAGO rills rise round scene shade shine sigh sing skelpin smile soft song sorrow soul sound spirit spread spring swain sweet tears thee thine thou thought toil trembling truth Twas vale virtue voice wandering wave wild wind wings wretch wyllowe youth
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Стр. 183 - THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 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...
Стр. 218 - As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm ; Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Стр. 185 - Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Стр. 236 - Nothing in my hand I bring, Simply to thy cross I cling ; Naked, come to Thee for dress ; Helpless, look to Thee for grace ; Foul, I to the Fountain fly, Wash me, Saviour, or I die...
Стр. 143 - Other refuge have I none, Hangs my helpless soul on thee. Leave, ah leave me not alone, Still support and comfort me. All my trust on thee is stayed, All my help from thee I bring; Cover my defenceless head With the shadow of thy wing.
Стр. 184 - Await alike the inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death...
Стр. 160 - How sleep the Brave T_TOW sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest ! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell, a weeping hermit, there...
Стр. 269 - I would not enter on my list of friends (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense. Yet wanting sensibility) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
Стр. 215 - Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates and men decay : Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; A breath can make them as a breath has made : But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
Стр. 61 - Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieged, And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged; Like Cato, give his little senate laws, And sit attentive to his own applause; While wits and Templars every sentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praise — Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he? What though my name stood rubric on the walls, Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals? Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers load, On wings of winds came flying...