Poems

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T. Cadell and W. Davies, 1816 - 246 páginas
 

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Página 31 - SWEET MEMORY, wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail, To view the fairy-haunts of long-lost hours, Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers.
Página 159 - That breathe a gale of fragrance round, I charm the fairy-footed hours With my loved lute's romantic sound ; Or crowns of living laurel weave, For those that win the race at eve. The shepherd's horn at break of day, The ballet danced in twilight glade, The canzonet and roundelay Sung in the silent green-wood shade ; These simple joys, that never fail, Shall bind me to my native vale.
Página 133 - Sweet drop of pure and pearly light! In thee the rays of Virtue shine ; More calmly clear, more mildly bright, Than any gem that gilds the mine.
Página 63 - Ann Countess Dowager of Pembroke, &c. for a memorial of her last parting, in this place, with her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d of April, 1616; in memory whereof she hath left an annuity of 41.
Página 8 - Long may the ruin spare its hallowed guest ! As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call ! Oh, haste, unfold the hospitable hall ! That hall, where once, in antiquated state, The chair of justice held the grave debate...
Página 124 - Go — you may call it madness, folly ; You shall not chase my gloom away. There's such a charm in melancholy, I would not, if I could, be gay.
Página 52 - When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled, A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed, What to thy soul its glad assurance gave, Its hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave? The sweet Remembrance of unblemished youth, The still inspiring voice of Innocence and Truth...
Página 21 - The intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign shore, Condemned to climb his mountain-cliffs no more, If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild Which on those cliffs his infant hours beguiled, Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise, And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs.
Página 24 - Hark! the bee winds her small but mellow horn,' Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn. O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course. And many a stream allures her to its source. Tis noon, 'tis night. That eye so finely wrought, Beyond the search of sense, the soar of thought, Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind; Its orb so full, its vision so confin'd!
Página 52 - Correct my views, and elevate my soul ; Grant me thy peace and purity of mind, Devout yet cheerful, active yet...

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