Bell's Classical Arrangement of Fugitive Poetry: Vol. IX.

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John Bell, 1789 - 192 páginas
 

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Página 65 - Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ; Oh ! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.
Página 65 - Yon house erected on the rising ground, With tempting aspect, drew me from my road, For plenty there a residence has found, And grandeur a magnificent abode. (Hard is the fate of the...
Página 96 - Or caught the orient blush of quick surprise, How sweetly mutable, how brightly wild, The liquid lustre darted from her eyes ? Each look, each motion wak'da new-born grace, That o'er her form its transient glory cast : Some lovelier wonder soon usurp'd the place, Chas'd by a charm still lovelier than the last.
Página 98 - Not sink and slumber in your cells of clay. Know, ye were form'd to range yon azure field, In yon ethereal founts of bliss to lave ; Force then, secure in Faith's protecting shield, The sting from Death, the vict'ry from the Grave.
Página 99 - That lift the hero from the fighting crowd. Is it his grasp of empire to extend ? To curb the fury of insulting foes ? Ambition, cease ; the idle contest end : 'Tis but a kingdom thou canst win or lose...
Página 141 - Th' expressive glance — whose subtle comment draws Entranced attention, and a mute applause; Gesture that marks , with force and feeling fraught , A sense in silence, and a will in thought; Harmonious speech, whose pure and liquid tone Gives verse a music, scarce...
Página 147 - Pnines its light wings, and pecks its food, And meditates the song : Serenely sorrowing, breathes its piteous case, And with its plaintive warblings saddens all the place. Forgive me, Heaven ! — yet — yet the tears will flow, To think how soon my scene of bliss is past ! My budding joys just promising to blow, All nipt and wither'd by one envious blast ! My hours, that laughing wont to fleet away...
Página 66 - Oh take me to your hospitable dome ! Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold ! Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, For I am poor, and miserably old.
Página 65 - With tempting aspect drew me from my road ; For plenty there a residence has found, And grandeur a magnificent abode. Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor...
Página 141 - The throng that mourn'd as their dead favourite pass'd, The graced respect that claim'd him to the last, While Shakespeare's image from its hallow'd base Seem'd to prescribe the grave, and point the place, Nor these, nor all the sad regrets that flow From fond fidelity's domestic woe.

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