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Seite 179 - And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the Shepherds weep no more; Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Seite 179 - Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears ; Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
Seite 495 - God ! methinks it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely swain : To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run: How many make the hour full complete, How many hours bring about the day, How many days will finish up the year, How many years a mortal man may live.
Seite 83 - Dis's waggon! daffodils That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath...
Seite 395 - Where some, like magistrates, correct at home, Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad, Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds ; Which pillage they with merry march bring...
Seite 308 - He hath put down the mighty from their seat : and hath exalted the humble and meek.
Seite 391 - And every sweetness that inspired their hearts, Their minds, and muses on admired themes ; If all the heavenly quintessence they still From their immortal flowers of poesy, Wherein, as in a mirror, we perceive The highest reaches of a human wit ; If these had made one poem's period, And all combined in beauty's worthiness, Yet should there hover in their restless heads One thought, one grace, one wonder, at the least, Which into words no virtue can digest...
Seite 280 - tis, that you should carry me away: And trust me not, my friends, if, every day, I walk not here with more delight, Than ever, after the most happy fight, In triumph to the capitol I rode, To thank the gods, and to be thought, myself, almost a god.
Seite 279 - Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good! Hail, ye plebeian under-wood ! Where the poetic birds rejoice, And for their quiet nests and plenteous food Pay, with their grateful voice. Hail, the poor Muses...
Seite 485 - Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour ! The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower. Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer.