The Republic of Letters: A Selection, in Poetry and Prose, from the Works of the Most Eminent Writers, with Many Original Pieces, Volume 2

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Alexander Whitelaw
Blackie & Son, 1835 - English literature
 

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Page 398 - Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ? What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn ? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
Page 337 - Cast thy bread upon the waters : for thou shall find it after many days.
Page 66 - Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well; Small difference lies between thy creed and mine : This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell ; His death was mourned by sympathy divine. The Being, that is in the clouds and air, That is in the green leaves among the groves, Maintains a deep and reverential care For the unoffending creatures whom he loves.
Page 397 - THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Page 64 - The moving accident is not my trade : To freeze the blood I have no ready arts : "Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
Page 133 - It is but lost labour that ye haste to rise up early, and so late take rest, and eat the bread of carefulness : for so he giveth his beloved sleep.
Page 65 - There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep, Will wet his lips within that cup of stone ; And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.
Page 398 - O attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, Beauty is truth, truth beauty,— that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
Page 148 - THE warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the year On the earth, her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying.
Page 130 - Thou art gone to the grave ! we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side, But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee, And sinners may hope, since the Sinless has died.

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