The poetic reciter; or, Beauties of the British poets: adapted for reading and recitation, in public and private seminaries. Com piled by H. Marlen
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What transport in her bosom grew , When first the Horse appear'd in view ! " Let me , " says she , " your back ascend , " And owe my safety to a friend ; " You know my feet betray my flight ; " To friendship every burden's light .
... Go , Rose , my Chloe's bosom grace : " How happy should I prove , 66 Might I supply that envy'd place , " With never - fading love ! " There , phoenix - like , beneath her eye , " Involv'd in fragrance , burn and die .
I flew to the pleasant fields , traversed so oft In life's morning march , when my bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain - goats bleating aloft , And knew the sweet strain that the corn - reapers sung .
WIDE Over the tremulous sea , The moon spread her mantle of light , And the gale , gently dying away , Breathed soft on the bosom of night . Ꭰ ? On the forecastle Maratan stood , And poured forth his TIIE POETIC RECITER . 41.
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The Poetic Reciter; Or, Beauties of the British Poets: Adapted for Reading ...
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arms beneath blessed bosom breast breath bright child cold cried dark dead dear death deep dread dream earth eternal face fair fall father fear feel fire flowers give glory grave green hand hast hath head hear heard heart Heaven hope hour knew land learned leave light live look Lord lost meet mind morn mother nature never night o'er once passed poor praise pride rest rise rose round scene seemed seen shade shore sigh silent sleep smile sorrow soul sound spirit stood stream sweet tear tell thee thine thing thou thought trembling turned Twas voice wandering waves weep wild wind wings wish young youth
Page 283 - When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept; Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honourable man.
Page 274 - Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me, Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee...
Page 294 - No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of ? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all...
Page 62 - Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place...
Page 285 - I am no orator, as Brutus is; But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, That love my friend; and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him: For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood...
Page 63 - Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all. And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Page 283 - But yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world: now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence.
Page 238 - Night, sable goddess ! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world. Silence how dead! and darkness how profound! Nor eye nor listening ear an object finds ; Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause ; An awful pause! prophetic of her end.
Page 238 - The bell strikes one. We take no note of time, But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the, knell of my departed hours : Where are they?
Page 157 - And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. If to the city sped — What waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share ; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe.