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T. Cadell, 1822 - 319 pages

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Page 207 - With hound in leash and hawk in hood, The Boy of Egremond was seen. * Blithe was his song, a song of yore ; But where the rock is rent in two, And the river rushes through...
Page 16 - Venice should blush to hear the Muse relate, When exile wore his blooming years away, To sorrow's long soliloquies a prey, When reason, justice, vainly urged his cause, For this he roused her sanguinary laws ; Glad to return, though Hope could grant no more, And chains and torture hailed him to the shore. And hence the charm historic scenes impart; Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart.
Page 108 - Thou shalt rise up before the hoary head, and honour the face of the old man, and fear thy God : I am the LORD.
Page 87 - Twas thine, Maria, thine without a sigh At midnight in a sister's arms to die. Oh thou wert lovely ; lovely was thy frame, And pure thy spirit as from heaven it came : And when recalled to join the blest above Thou diedst a victim to exceeding love, Nursing the young1 to health.
Page 29 - SWEET MEMORY, wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail, To view the fairy-haunts of long-lost hours, Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers. Ages and climes remote to Thee impart What charms in Genius and refines in Art ; Thee, in whose hands the keys of Science dwell, The pensive portress of her holy cell ; Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp Oblivion steals upon her vestal-lamp.
Page 199 - They stand between the mountains and the sea ; Awful memorials, but of whom we know not ! The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck. The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak, Points to the work of magic and moves on.
Page 38 - Than when the shades of time serenely fall On every broken arch and ivied wall; The tender images we love to trace, Steal from each year a melancholy grace ! And as the sparks of social love expand, As the heart opens in a foreign land; And, with a brother's warmth, a brother's smile, The stranger greets each native of his isle...
Page 175 - Go — you may call it madness, folly ; You shall not chase my gloom away. There's such a charm in melancholy, I would not, if I could, be gay.
Page 217 - MINE be a cot beside the hill ; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near.
Page 229 - Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold. There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky, Expand and shut with silent ecstasy ! —Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept. And such is man ; soon from his cell of clay To burst a seraph in the blaze of day ! * At Woburn Abbey.

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