The works of the English poets. With prefaces, biographical and critical, by S. Johnson, Band 62


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Seite 50 - Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly ? Has matter innate motion ! Then each atom, Asserting its indisputable right To dance, would form an universe of dust.
Seite 5 - Nor man alone ; his breathing bust expires, His tomb is mortal; empires die. Where, now, The Roman ? Greek? They stalk, an empty name ! Yet few regard them in this useful light; Though half our learning is their epitaph.
Seite 12 - Deep driving every bolt, on both their fates : Then, from the crystal battlements of heaven, Down, down she hurls it through the dark profound, Ten thousand thousand...
Seite 29 - Of human thought? The more of wonderful Is heard in Him, the more we should assent. Could we conceive him, God he could not be ; Or he not God, or we could not be men. A God alone can comprehend a God : Man's distance how immense ! On such a theme, Know this, Lorenzo!
Seite 45 - O ye Dividers of my Time ! Ye bright Accomptants of my days, and months, and years, In your fair Kalendar, distinctly mark'd ! Since that authentic, radiant register, Though man inspects it not, stands good against him ; Since You, and years, roll on, tho...
Seite 51 - Has matter more than motion ? Has it thought, Judgment, and genius ? Is it deeply learn'd In mathematics ? Has it framed such laws, Which but to guess, a Newton made immortal ? — If so, how each sage atom laughs at me, Who think a clod inferior to a man...
Seite 213 - They more debase the stamp, than raise the coin. Be thine the care, true merit to reward, And gain the good — nor will that task be hard ; Souls form'd alike so quick by nature blend. An honest man is more than half thy friend.
Seite 91 - The pang you feel, he felt ; Thus nature, loud as virtue, bids His heart at yours to melt. But what can heart, or head, suggest ? What sad experience say ? Through truths austere, to peace we work Our rugged, gloomy way : What are we?
Seite 8 - Her strong convulsions, and her final groan ? Where are we now ? Ah me ! the ground is gone On which we stood ! Lorenzo ! while thou mayst, Provide more firm support, or sink for ever ! Where ? how ? from whence...
Seite 202 - Wits are a despicable race of men, If they confine their talents to the pen ; When the man shocks us, while the writer shines, Our scorn in life, our envy in his lines. Yet, proud of parts, with prudence some dispense, And play the fool, because they're men of sense.

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