The Sale-room

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s.n., 1817

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173. oldal - Oh! there are looks and tones that dart An instant sunshine through the heart, — As if the soul that minute caught Some treasure it through life had sought...
211. oldal - Tis to create, and in creating live A being more intense, that we endow With form our fancy, gaining as we give The life we image, even as I do now. What am I? Nothing; but not so art thou, Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth, Invisible but gazing, as I glow Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings
165. oldal - But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless; Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!
118. oldal - Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York ; And all the clouds, that lower'd upon our house, In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
211. oldal - Cut to his heart again with the keen knife Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife With airy images, and shapes which dwell Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell.
28. oldal - Half way down Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade! Methinks, he seems no bigger than his head: The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, Appear like mice; and yon...
30. oldal - And now my tongue's use is to me no more Than an unstringed viol, or a harp ; Or like a cunning instrument cas'd up, Or, being open, put into his hands That knows no touch to tune the harmony.
173. oldal - The' acacia waves her yellow hair, Lonely and sweet, nor lov'd the less For flowering in a wilderness. Our sands are bare, but down their slope The silvery-footed antelope As gracefully and gaily springs As o'er the marble courts of kings.
192. oldal - Boastful and rough, your first son is a 'squire ; The next a tradesman, meek, and much a liar ; Tom struts a soldier, open, bold, and brave ; "Will sneaks a scrivener, an exceeding knave.
184. oldal - Thus Nature spake — The work was done — How soon my Lucy's race was run ! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ; The memory of what has been, And never more will be.

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