Louisa, Or The Cottage on the Moor

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T. Barrois, Junior, 1807 - 200 oldal
 

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1. oldal - Tis as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause; An awful pause! prophetic of her end.
97. oldal - What is the world to them, Its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonsense all! Who in each other clasp whatever fair High fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish ; Something than beauty dearer, should they look Or on the mind, or mind-illumined face: Truth, goodness, honour, harmony, and love, The richest bounty of indulgent Heaven.
17. oldal - O thou best of parents! wipe thy tears; Or rather to Parental Nature pay The tears of grateful joy, who for a while Lent thee this younger self, this opening bloom Of thy enlightened mind and gentle worth.
23. oldal - Then Nature all Wears to the lover's eye a look of love ; And all the tumult of a guilty world) Tost by ungenerous passions, sinks away.
84. oldal - All nature fades extinct ; and she alone Heard, felt, and seen, possesses every thought, Fills every sense, and pants in every vein.
144. oldal - Cold, and averting from our neighbour's good; Then dark disgust and hatred, winding wiles, Coward deceit, and ruffian violence. At last, extinct each social feeling, fell And joyless inhumanity pervades And petrifies the heart.
162. oldal - And thus their moments fly. The Seasons thus, As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll, Still find them happy ; and consenting SPRING Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads : Till evening comes at last, serene and mild ; When after the long vernal day of life, Enamour'd more, as more remembrance swells With many a proof of recollected love, Together down they sink in social sleep ; Together freed, their gentle spirits fly To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign.
162. oldal - These are the matchless joys of virtuous love; And thus their moments fly. The Seasons thus, As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll, Still find them happy; and consenting SPRING Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads: Till evening...
153. oldal - The shameless hand be foully crirnson'cl o'er With blood of its own lord. Dreadful attempt ! Just reeking from self-slaughter, in a rage To rush into the presence of our Judge ; As if we...

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