The Caledonian Muse: A Chronological Selection of Scotish Poetry from the Earliest Times

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Joseph Ritson
Triphook, 1821 - English poetry - 232 pages

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Page 152 - Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew, Cheerless, unsocial plant ; that loves to dwell 'Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms: Where light-heel'd ghosts, and visionary shades, Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports) Embodied, thick, perform their mystic rounds. No other merriment, dull tree, is thine.
Page 148 - Sure the last end Of the good man is peace. How calm his exit ! Night-dews fall not more gently to the ground, Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft.
Page 140 - Strew'd with death's spoils, the spoils of animals, Savage and tame, and full of dead men's bones? The very turf on which we tread once liv'd ; And we that live must lend our carcasses To cover our own offspring : in their turns They too must cover theirs.
Page 139 - In the world's hale and undegenerate days Could scarce have leisure for. Fools that we are ! Never to think of Death and of ourselves At the same time : as if to learn to die Were no concern of ours.
Page 6 - Tane leif at nature with ane orient blast ; And lusty May, that muddir is of flouris, Had maid the birdis to begyn thair houris...
Page 139 - See yonder maker of the dead man's bed, The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle! Of hard unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole A gentle tear; with mattock in his hand, Digs thro* whole rows of kindred and acquaintance, By far his juniors.
Page 154 - Farewell, ye blooming fields ! ye cheerful plains ! Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound, Where Melancholy with still Silence reigns, And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground.
Page 152 - midst the wreck of things which were; There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. The wind is up: hark ! how it howls ! Methinks Till now, I never heard a sound so dreary...
Page 149 - The rural pipe and merry lay No more shall cheer the happy day : No social scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night : No strains but those of sorrow flow, And...
Page 152 - Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of Night. Again the screech-owl shrieks : ungracious sound ! I'll hear no more ; it makes one's blood run chill.

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