A History of Eighteenth Century Literature (1660-1780)

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Macmillan and Company, 1889 - Всего страниц: 415
 

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Стр. 233 - How sleep the Brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed 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 Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there!
Стр. 107 - And taught the doubtful battle how to rage. So when an angel by divine command With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past, Calm and serene he drives the furious blast ; And pleased th' Almighty's orders to perform, Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm.
Стр. 340 - Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air ; His very foot has music in't • As he comes up the stair, — And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak ? I'm downright dizzy wi...
Стр. 290 - Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to any favourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though I should conclude it, if less be possible, with less: for I have been long wakened from that dream of hope, in which I once boasted myself with so much exultation...
Стр. 230 - O thou Traveller unknown, Whom still I hold, but cannot see ; My company before is gone, And I am left alone with Thee ; With Thee all night I mean to stay, And wrestle till the break of day. I need not tell Thee who I am, My misery...
Стр. 60 - A man so various that he seemed to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome : Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, Was everything by starts and nothing long; But in the course of one revolving moon Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon ; Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking.
Стр. 17 - In thy felonious heart tho' venom lies, It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies. Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame In keen iambics, but mild anagram. Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command Some peaceful province in acrostic land. There thou may'st wings display and altars raise, And torture one poor word ten thousand ways. Or, if thou wouldst thy diff'rent talents suit, Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute.
Стр. 125 - See Mystery to Mathematics fly! In vain ! they gaze, turn giddy, rave and die. Religion, blushing, veils her sacred fires, And unawares Morality expires. Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse Divine; Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restor'd; Light dies before thy uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch ! lets the curtain fall ; And universal Darkness buries All.
Стр. 134 - The god of us verse-men (you know, child), the sun, How after his journeys he sets up his rest; If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run, At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast.
Стр. 229 - Live while you live, the Epicure would say, And seize the pleasures of the present day. Live while you live, the sacred Preacher cries, And give to God each moment as it flies.

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