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Amidst bards blank verse blessings blest bliss boast bowers breast bridal night brother Burke charms cheerful climes cry’d David Garrick dear decay Doctor e'en E’en eyes fame fault feast fire fled flies folly fond forc’d forlorn Garrick gentle give guest heart Heaven hermit Hoards honest honour hour humble humour keep a corner kind labour land learning lord lov’d lovers luxury mind mirth never o'er OLIVER GOLDSMITH pain passion pasty patriot plain pleas'd pleasure poem poet pomp poor praise pride proud raptures reign remain’d Richard Burke rise round shore sigh simile sinks Sir Joshua Reynolds skies skill'd smiling sorrow soul spread Stoops to Conquer stranger supply'd swain sweet SWEET Auburn thee There’s thine thou toil Trinity College tripe turn Twas venison village virtue’s wealth weep wept Whitefoord wish’d wond’rous wretch
Seite 25 - In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs - and God has given my share I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose.
Seite 28 - Wept o'er his wounds or tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began.
Seite 43 - But me, not destined such delights to share, My prime of life in wandering spent and care; Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view; That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies; My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, And find no spot of all the world my own.
Seite 48 - Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts though small, He sees his little lot the lot of all ; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head To shame the meanness of his humble shed...
Seite 23 - While secret laughter tittered round the place; The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove, — These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these, With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please; These, round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, These were thy charms, — but all these charms are fled!
Seite 96 - Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick If they were not his own by finessing and trick: He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back. Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame; Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.
Seite 24 - His best companions, innocence and health, And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth, and cumbrous pomp repose ; And every want to luxury allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Seite 44 - But where to find that happiest spot below, Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, And his long nights of revelry and ease : The naked negro, panting at the line, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.
Seite 46 - That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; Whatever sweets salute the northern sky With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; These here disporting own the kindred soil, Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.
Seite 27 - She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain.