The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper: Including the Series Edited with Prefaces, Biographical and Critical, 14. kötetJ. Johnson, 1810 - 586 oldal |
Más kiadások - Összes megtekintése
WORKS OF THE ENGLISH POETS FRO Alexander 1759-1834 Chalmers,Samuel 1709-1784 Johnson Nincs elérhető előnézet - 2016 |
WORKS OF THE ENGLISH POETS FRO Alexander 1759-1834 Chalmers,Samuel 1709-1784 Johnson Nincs elérhető előnézet - 2016 |
The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper: Including the Series ... Alexander Chalmers,Samuel Johnson Nincs elérhető előnézet - 2018 |
Gyakori szavak és kifejezések
Academus Amalthea amid Amyntor ancient arms Athens awful bard beauty behold beneath blest bloom blooming store bosom breast brow charms cloud delight divine dread dwell Earth eternal Ev'n fair faithful fame Fancy fate fear fix'd flame flowers genius glory grace grove hand happy hath heart Heaven Hesiod honour hope horrour hour human Hymen laws light lord lov'd lyre maid Megacles mind morn mortal Muse Muse's Naiads Nature Nature's night numbers nymph o'er once pain passion Petrarch Pindar Pisistratus pleasure poem pomp praise pride rage rais'd rapture rill rise round sacred scene sense shade shame shore silence smiles smiling band soft song soul springs stream sublime sweet tears tender terrour thee thine things thou thought throne toil tongue train truth Twas vale vex'd vext virtue Virtue's voice wing wonder youth
Népszerű szakaszok
144. oldal - Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear : Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th...
143. oldal - For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
147. oldal - Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes: Youth on the prow and Pleasure at the helm : Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, That hushed in grim repose expects his evening prey.
142. oldal - The vultures of the mind, Disdainful anger, pallid fear, And shame that skulks behind ; Or pining love shall waste their youth, Or jealousy with rankling tooth That inly gnaws the secret heart, And envy wan, and faded care, Grim-visaged comfortless despair, And sorrow's piercing dart. Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high To bitter scorn a sacrifice And grinning infamy. The stings of falsehood those shall try, And hard unkindness
145. oldal - Man's feeble race what Ills await! Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!
147. oldal - Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — No more I weep. They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit, they linger yet, Avengers of their native land : With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.
142. oldal - Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race Disporting on thy margent green The paths of pleasure trace; Who foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?
144. oldal - Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.
143. oldal - How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. Await alike the' inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
141. oldal - But flutter through life's little day, In Fortune's varying colours drest, Brush'd by the hand of rough mischance, Or chill'd by age, their airy dance They leave, in dust to rest. Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive, kind reply : Poor moralist ! and what art thou ? A solitary fly ! Thy joys no glittering female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display : On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone — We frolic, while 'tis May.