The Yale Literary Magazine, Том 11

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Стр. 286 - I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow.
Стр. 325 - And when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown, that Sylvan...
Стр. 277 - No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bosom of his father and his God.
Стр. 277 - THE EPITAPH Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A youth to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair science frowned not on his humble birth, And melancholy marked him for her own.
Стр. 408 - To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven. 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. 311 - And wi' the lave ilk merry morn Could rank my rig and lass, Still shearing, and clearing The tither stocked raw, Wi' claivers, an' haivers, Wearing the day awa : Ev'n then a wish, (I mind its power,) A wish that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast ; That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, Some usefu' plan, or beuk could make, Or sing a sang at least.
Стр. 148 - In happy climes, the seat of innocence, Where Nature guides and Virtue rules, Where men shall not impose for truth and sense The pedantry of courts and schools : There shall be sung another golden age, The rise of empire and of arts, The good and great inspiring epic rage, The wisest heads and noblest hearts.
Стр. 303 - To him who in the love of nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware.
Стр. 274 - Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply ; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.
Стр. 366 - I cannot blame him : at my nativity The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes, Of burning cressets ; and at my birth The frame and huge foundation of the earth Shak'd like a coward.

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