The Wiccamical chaplet, a selection of original poetry. Ed. by G. Huddesford

Leigh, Sotheby and Son, 1804 - 223 Seiten

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Seite 81 - But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all The thoughts that would full fain the past recall, Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide, The world his country, and his God his guide.
Seite 60 - Think what with them they would do That without them dare to woo ; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be ? Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair: If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve : If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go ; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be ? George Wither.
Seite 103 - That cloth'd himself in clay, Enter'd the iron gates of death, And tore the bars away. 2 Death is no more the king of dread Since our Immanuel rose, He took the tyrant's sting away, And spoil'd our hellish foes. 3 See how the Conqueror mounts aloft, And to his Father flies, With scars of honour in his flesh, And triumph in his eyes. 4 There our exalted Saviour reigns...
Seite 60 - SHALL I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May, If she think not well of me, What care I how fair she be?
Seite 223 - Queen of every moving measure, Sweetest source of purest pleasure, Music ! why thy powers employ Only for the sons of joy ? Only for the smiling guests At natal or at nuptial feasts ? Rather thy lenient numbers pour On those whom secret griefs devour : Bid be still the throbbing hearts Of those whom death or absence parts; And with some softly- whispered air Smooth the brow of dumb despair*".
Seite 9 - Guide thro' the walks of death alone her car Attendant only on the din of war; She ne'er disdains the gentle vale of Peace, Or olive shades of philosophic ease, Where heav'n-taught minds to woo the Muse resort.
Seite 88 - And mark the lessening sand from hour-glass fall; Or 'neath my window view the wistful train Of dripping poultry, whom the vine's broad leaves Shelter no more. Mute is the mournful plain; Silent the swallow sits beneath the thatch, And vacant hind hangs pensive o'er his hatch, Counting the frequent drips from reeded eaves.
Seite 78 - Advancing slow forewarns the approach of day (What time the young and flowery-kirtled May Decks the green hedge and dewy grass unshorn With cowslips pale and many a whitening thorn...
Seite 3 - If the stroke of war Fell certain on the guilty head, none else, If they that make the cause might taste th...
Seite 226 - Dulce domum resonemus ! Chorus. Domum, domum, dulce domum ! Domum, domum, dulce domum ! Dulce, dulce, dulce domum ! Dulce domum resonemus.

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