The Poetical Works of Johnson, Parnell, Gray, and Smollett

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W.P. Nimmo, 1868 - 254 pages
 

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Page 201 - The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Page 204 - One morn I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree ; Another came : nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he : The next, with dirges due in sad array Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne, — Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
Page 177 - Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes ; Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.
Page 31 - On what foundation stands the warrior's pride? How just his hopes let Swedish Charles decide; A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, No dangers fright him, and no labours tire...
Page 164 - Windsor's heights the expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver-winding way...
Page 167 - Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness...
Page 166 - Gainst graver hours that bring constraint To sweeten liberty : Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare descry : Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.
Page 202 - Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear : Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village- Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th...
Page 162 - Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive, kind reply : Poor moralist ! and what art thou ? A solitary fly ! Thy joys no glittering female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display : On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone — We frolic, while 'tis May.
Page 166 - Alas, regardless of their doom, The little victims play ! No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond to-day.

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