A History of Eighteenth Century Literature: (1660-1780)MacMillan, 1899 - 415 oldal |
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125. oldal - Thy hand, great Anarch ! lets the curtain fall, And universal darkness buries all.
229. oldal - Live while you live, the Epicure would say, And seize the pleasures of the present day. Live while you live, the sacred Preacher cries, And give to God each moment as it flies.
290. oldal - The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early, had been kind ; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it ; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it ; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations where no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the public should consider me as owing that to a patron, which Providence has enabled me to do for myself.
107. oldal - Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. So when an angel by divine command With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past, Calm and serene he drives the furious blast ; And, pleased the Almighty's orders to perform, Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.
294. oldal - The busy day, the peaceful night, Unfelt, uncounted, glided by: His frame was firm — his powers were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh. Then with no fiery throbbing pain, No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, And freed his soul the nearest way.
236. oldal - I do not remember to have gone ten paces without an exclamation that there was no restraining; not a precipice, not a torrent, not a cliff, but is pregnant with religion and poetry.
121. oldal - And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast : There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, There the first roses of the year shall blow ; While angels with their silver wings o'ershade The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.
340. oldal - Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air ; His very foot has music in't, As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again ? And will I hear him speak ? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, — In troth, I'm like to greet.
60. oldal - A man so various that he seemed to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome : Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, Was everything by starts and nothing long; But in the course of one revolving moon Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon ; Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking.
233. oldal - How sleep the Brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.