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

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157. oldal - Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary ! For, could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see ? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary ! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign ; Yet gently prest, press gently mine, My Mary!
181. oldal - Nor, cruel as it seem'd, 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 repell'd; And ever as the minutes flew, Entreated help, or cried - 'Adieu!
281. oldal - WHAT is there in the vale of life Half so delightful as a wife, When friendship, love, and peace combine To stamp the marriage-bond divine ? The stream of pure and genuine love Derives its current from above ; And earth a second Eden shows, Where'er the healing water flows...
156. oldal - Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary ! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more, My Mary ! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will...
158. oldal - But ah! by constant heed I know How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary!
182. oldal - Adieu!' At length, his transient respite past, His comrades, who before Had heard his voice in every blast, Could catch the sound no more: For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank.
449. oldal - Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods : And Time hath made thee what thou art — a cave For owls to roost in.
451. oldal - Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still The great and little of thy lot, thy growth From almost nullity into a state Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, Slow, into such magnificent decay. Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly Could shake thee to the root — and time has been When tempests could not.
237. oldal - With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, Calls the delightful scenery all his own. His are the mountains, and the valleys his, And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy With a propriety that none can feel, But who, with filial confidence inspired, Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, And smiling say —
180. oldal - He loved them both, but both in vain, Nor him beheld, nor her again. Not long beneath the whelming brine...

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