The life and posthumous writings of William Cowper, by W. Hayley

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43. oldal - That ere through age or woe I shed my wings I may record thy worth with honour due, In verse as musical as thou art true, And that immortalizes whom it sings : — But thou hast little need. There is a Book By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, On which the eyes of God not rarely look, A chronicle of actions just and bright — There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine ; And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
270. oldal - The path of sorrow, and that path alone, Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown ; No traveller ever reach'd that blest abode, Who found not thorns and briers in his road.
214. oldal - He loved them both, but both in vain, Nor him beheld, nor her again. Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay; Nor soon he felt his strength decline, Or courage die away: But waged with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life.
215. oldal - Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he Their haste himself condemn, Aware that flight, in such a sea, Alone could rescue them; Yet bitter felt it still to die Deserted, and his friends so nigh. He long survives, who lives an hour In ocean, self-upheld; And so long he, with unspent power, His destiny repelled; And ever, as the minutes flew, Entreated help, or cried 'Adieu!
247. oldal - When one, that holds communion with the skies, Has filled his urn where these pure waters rise, And once more mingles with us meaner things, 'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings ; Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide, That tells us whence his treasures are supplied.
196. oldal - But ah! by constant heed I know How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last — My Mary!
188. oldal - And people's safety, which in part they effect ; Yet toward these, thus dignified, thou oft, Amidst their height of noon, Changest thy countenance and thy hand, with no regard Of highest favours past From thee on them, or them to thee of service.
216. oldal - Could catch the sound no more : For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank. No poet wept him : but the page Of narrative sincere, That tells his name, his worth, his age, Is wet with Anson's tear : And tears by bards or heroes shed Alike immortalize the dead. I therefore purpose not, or dream, Descanting on his fate, To give the melancholy theme A more enduring date: But misery still delights to trace Its semblance in another's case.
260. oldal - He looks abroad into the varied field Of nature, and though poor, perhaps, compared With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, Calls the delightful scenery all his own.
195. oldal - The twentieth year is well nigh past, Since first our sky was overcast, Ah, would that this might be the last! My Mary ! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow — 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary ! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disus'd, and shine no more, My Mary...

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