Odes and sonnets, illustrated (by B. Foster).

Front Cover
Routledge, 1859
 

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Page 96 - That time of year thou may'st in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all the rest.
Page 26 - Happy the man. whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound. Content to breathe his native air. In his own ground Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire. Whose trees in summer yield him shade. In winter fire.
Page 105 - With coral clasps and amber studs ; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my love.
Page 94 - Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er! Such fate to suffering worth is...
Page 104 - And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield. There will we sit upon the rocks And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.
Page 12 - You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising Sun Has not attain'd his noon. Stay, stay Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a Spring ; As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or any thing.
Page 92 - Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft To give my Love good-morrow ! Wings from the wind to please her mind Notes from the lark I'll borrow ; Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing, To give my Love good-morrow ; To give my Love good-morrow Notes from them both I'll borrow.
Page 94 - Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies...
Page 63 - The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; For thou must die. Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die.
Page 23 - If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste eve, to soothe thy modest ear, Like thy own solemn springs, Thy springs, and dying gales...

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