The Poetical Works of Edward Young, 1. kötetWilliam Pickering, 1852 - 334 oldal |
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ambition angels archangels art thou beam beneath bids blest bliss blood divine boast boundless Busiris charms creation dark death deep Deity delight divine Dost dread dust earth EDWARD YOUNG endless eternal ethereal Ev'n ev'ry fair fate flame fond fool give glorious glory gods grave grief guilt happiness heart heaven Herbert Croft hope hour human illustrious infidels life's light live Lorenzo man's mankind midnight mighty mind mortal Narcissa nature nature's ne'er night Night Thoughts nought numbers o'er Omnipotence pain passion peace Philander pleasure poem praise pride proud reason rise sacred says scene sense shines sigh sight skies smile song soul immortal sphere stars stings strange thee theme thine thought thro throne thy disease tomb triumph truth virtue virtue's Voltaire wing wisdom wise wish wonder wretched ye stars Young
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4. oldal - A worm ! a god ! I tremble at myself, And in myself am lost ! at home a stranger, Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, And wondering at her own: how reason reels! O what a miracle to man is man!
xliii. oldal - For letting down the golden chain from high, He drew his audience upward to the sky...
215. oldal - Bewilder'd in the vale; in all unlike! His full reverse in all! What higher praise? What stronger demonstration of the right? The present, all their care; the future, his. When public welfare calls, or private want, They give to fame; his bounty he conceals. Their virtues varnish nature; his, exalt.
17. oldal - Youth is not rich in time, it may be poor ; Part with it as with money, sparing ; pay No moment, but in purchase of its worth ; And what its worth, ask death-beds ; they can tell.
7. oldal - Insatiate archer ! could not one suffice ? Thy shaft flew thrice ; and thrice my peace was slain ; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her horn.
5. oldal - And is it in the flight of threescore years, To push eternity from human thought, And smother souls immortal in the dust...
55. oldal - Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour ? What though we wade in wealth, or soar in fame ? Earth's highest station ends in, " Here he lies," And " Dust to dust
240. oldal - The thunder, as the sun ; a stagnate mass Of vapours breeds a pestilential air: Nor more propitious the Favonian breeze To nature's health, than purifying storms ; The dread Volcano ministers to good. Its smother'd flames might undermine the world. Loud...
268. oldal - Retire ; — the world shut out ; — thy thoughts call home ^~ Imagination's airy wing repress ; Lock up thy senses ; — let no passion stir , — Wake all to reason ; — let her reign alone...
2. oldal - Night, sable goddess ! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world. Silence how dead ! and darkness how profound! Nor eye nor listening ear an object finds; Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause; An awful pause! prophetic of her end.