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ambition angels beneath bids bliſs cauſe chat creation dark darkneſs dead death deep divine dread duft earth eternal ev'ry face fail fair fall fame fate fear feel field figh fight fire fool foul ftill future give glory gods grave guilt hand happineſs hear heart heav'n hope hour human immortal kind leave leſs life's light live look Lorenzo man's mankind mean mind moft mortal moſt nature nature's never night nought o'er once pain peace Pleaſure poor pow'r praiſe pride proud Reaſon rich riſe round ſcene ſee ſeen ſhall ſkies ſmile ſoul ſphere ſuch ſun thee theme theſe thine things thoſe thou thought thro throne triumph true truth turn virtue whole whoſe wide wing wiſdom wiſe wonder
1. oldal - From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose I wake : how happy they who wake no more ! Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave.
7. oldal - ... immortal. All men think all men mortal but themselves ; Themselves, when some alarming shock of Fate Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread : But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close; where past the shaft no trace is found.
20. oldal - Nature, in zeal for human amity, Denies or damps an undivided joy. Joy is an import; joy is an exchange; Joy flies monopolists; it calls for two: Rich fruit!
68. oldal - Our life, tho' still more rapid in its flow, Nor mark the much irrevocably laps'd, And mingled with the sea.
5. oldal - Death ! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars. The sun himself by thy permission shines, And one day thou shalt pluck him from his sphere...
17. oldal - Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours ; And ask them, what report they bore to heaven : And how they might have borne more welcome news.
45. oldal - He rose! he rose! he burst the bars of death. Lift up your heads, ye everlasting gates! And give the King of Glory to come in. Who is the King of Glory ? he who left His throne of glory for the pang of death. Lift up your heads, ye everlasting gates!
5. oldal - tis the common lot: In this shape or in that has Fate entail'd The mother's throes on all of woman born, Not more the children than sure heirs of pain.
19. oldal - To gentle life's descent We shut our eyes, and think it is a plain. We take fair days in winter, for the spring; And turn our blessings into bane.