De Vere: Or, The Man of Independence, Volume 2

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Carey, Lea, and Carey, 1827
 

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Página 21 - And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some spirit to mortals good, Or the unseen Genius of the wood.
Página 67 - Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
Página 181 - And thought my way was all through fairy ground, Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun : Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun! While pensive Memory traces back the round, Which fills the varied interval between ; Much pleasure, more of sorrow marks the scene.
Página 43 - Lo! see soone after how more bold and free Her bared bosome she doth broad display; Lo! see soone after how she fades and falls away.
Página 1 - But power to do good is the true and lawful end of aspiring. For good thoughts (though God accept them) yet towards men are little better than good dreams, except they be put in act; and that cannot be without power and place, as the vantage and commanding ground.
Página 193 - Can Music's voice, can Beauty's eye, Can Painting's glowing hand supply, A charm so suited to my mind, As blows this hollow gust of wind, As drops this little weeping rill, Soft tinkling down the moss-grown hill, While through the west, where sinks the crimson day, Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners gray?
Página 28 - O thou invisible spirit of wine ! if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.
Página 42 - So passeth in the passing of a day Of mortal life the leaf, the bud, the flower...
Página 260 - It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale ; look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops; I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Página 85 - Club almost every day, and would come and talk idly with them almost every night even when his all was at stake." Some specimens of Harley's poetry are in print.

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