The Poetical Works of Henry Kirke White

W. Pickering, 1840 - 252 Seiten

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Seite 214 - Go, lovely Rose ! Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That had'st thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired : Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die ! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee, —...
Seite 226 - Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks, From every host, from every gem ; But one alone the Saviour speaks, It is the Star of Bethlehem.
Seite 230 - So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart : Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel ; While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
Seite 98 - IT is not that my lot is low, That bids this silent tear to flow ; It is not grief that bids me moan, It is that I am all alone. In woods and glens I love to roam, When the tired hedger hies him home, Or by the woodland pool to rest, When pale the star looks on its breast. Yet when the silent evening sighs, With hallowed airs and symphonies, My spirit takes another tone, And sighs that it is all alone.
Seite 178 - Then since this world is vain, And volatile, and fleet, Why should I lay up earthly joys, Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, And cares and sorrows eat ? 'Why fly from ill With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still?
Seite 173 - And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare intrude, To break the marble solitude, So peaceful and so deep. And hark ! the wind-god, as he flies, Moans hollow in the forest trees, And sailing on the gusty breeze, Mysterious music dies. Sweet flower ! that requiem wild is mine, It warns me to the lonely shrine, The cold turf altar of the dead ; My grave shall be in yon lone spot, Where as I lie, by all forgot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.
Seite 43 - And pendant ruffles, of the whitest lawn, Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes, A pair of spectacles their want supplies ; These does she guard secure, in leathern case, From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place...
Seite 2 - The pale mechanic leaves the labouring loom, The air-pent hold, the pestilential room, And rushes out, impatient to begin The stated course of customary sin ; Now, now my solitary way I bend Where solemn groves in awful state impend : And cliffs, that boldly rise above the plain, Bespeak, blest Clifton ! thy sublime domain.
Seite 25 - Pis passing strange, to mark his fallacies ; Behold him proudly view some pompous pile, Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies, And smile, and say, My name shall live with this Till time shall be no more...
Seite 143 - Thee, when young spring first questioned winter's sway. And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone, Thy tender elegance. So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill...

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