The British Poets: Including Translations ...

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C. Whittingham, 1822 - English poetry
 

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Page 119 - His sides are clothed with waving wood ; And ancient towers crown his brow, That cast an awful look below ; Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps, And with her arms from falling keeps ; So both, a safety from the wind In mutual dependence find. 'Tis now the raven's bleak abode ; 'Tis now th...
Page 120 - Huge heaps of hoary mouldered walls. Yet Time has seen, that lifts the low, And level lays the lofty brow, Has seen this broken pile complete, Big with the vanity of state; But transient is the smile of fate! A little rule, a little sway, A sunbeam in a winter's day, 90 Is all the proud and> mighty have Between the cradle and the grave.
Page 118 - Does the face of nature show, In all the hues of heaven's bow ! And, swelling to embrace the light, Spreads around beneath the sight. Old castles on the cliffs arise, Proudly...
Page 118 - Wide and wider spreads the vale, As circles on a smooth canal : The mountains round, unhappy fate ! Sooner or later, of all height, Withdraw their summits from the skies, And lessen as the others...
Page 142 - There is a mood, (I sing not to the vacant and the young) There is a kindly mood of melancholy, That wings the soul, and points her to the skies...
Page 148 - And ease, and luxury! O Luxury! Bane of elated life, of affluent states, What dreary change, what ruin, is not thine? How doth thy bowl intoxicate the mind ! To the soft entrance of thy rosy cave How dost thou lure the fortunate and great ! Dreadful attraction...
Page 10 - ... springs Through this majestic frame of things, Beyond what he can reach to know ; And that Heaven's all-subduing will, With good, the progeny of ill, Attempereth every state below.
Page 131 - E'en yet majestical : the solemn scene Elates the soul, while now the rising Sun Flames on the ruins in the purer air Towering aloft upon the glittering plain, Like broken rocks, a vast circumference ! Rent palaces, crush'd columns, rifled moles, Fanes roll'd on fanes, and tombs on buried tombs...
Page 118 - Sweetly musing Quiet dwells ; Grongar ! in whose silent shade, For the modest Muses made, So oft I have, the evening still, At the fountain of a rill...
Page 210 - We next are shown A circular machine,* of new design, In conic shape ; it draws and spins a thread Without the tedious toil of needless hands.

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