The British Poets: Including Translations ...

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C. Whittingham, 1822
 

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Page 127 - Ah ! who can tell how many a soul sublime Has felt the influence of malignant star, And waged with Fortune an eternal war ! Checked by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown, And Poverty's unconquerable bar, In life's low vale remote has pined alone, Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown ! ii.
Page 226 - And darkness and doubt are now flying away, No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn : So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, The bright and the balmy effulgence of mom.
Page 136 - But who the melodies of morn can tell * The wild brook babbling down the mountain side ; The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell ; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley...
Page 225 - THE HERMIT. AT the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove : 'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began ; No more with himself or with nature at war, He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.
Page 130 - O how canst thou renounce the boundless store Of charms which Nature to her votary yields ! The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields ; All that the genial ray of morning gilds, And all that echoes to the song of even, All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, And all the dread magnificence of Heaven, O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven ! These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, And love, and gentleness, and joy impart.
Page 134 - And sees, on high, amidst th' encircling groves, From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine : While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join, And echo swells the chorus to the skies. Would Edwin this majestic scene resign For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies? Ah!
Page 134 - But why should I his childish feats display ? Concourse and noise, and toil, he ever fled ; Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray Of squabbling imps ; but to the forest sped...
Page 134 - In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene» In darkness, and in storm, he found delight : Nor less, than when on ocean-wave serene The southern sun diffused his dazzling shene*.
Page 131 - Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free ; Patient of toil ; serene amidst alarms ; Inflexible in faith ; invincible in arms.
Page 150 - Oft did the cliffs reverberate the sound Of parted fragments tumbling from on high; And from the summit of that craggy mound The perching eagle oft was heard to cry, Or on resounding wings to shoot athwart the sky.

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