The British Poets: Including Translations ...

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C. Whittingham, 1822
 

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Стр. 228 - WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell...
Стр. 235 - Or midst the chase, on every plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell : Each lonely scene shall thee restore ; For thee the tear be duly shed ; Beloved, till life can charm no more ; And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.
Стр. 228 - Each (for madness ruled the hour) Would prove his own expressive power, FIRST Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why, E'en at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rush'd ; his eyes on fire, In lightnings own'd his secret stings : In one rude clash, he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings...
Стр. 209 - O THOU by Nature taught, To breathe her genuine Thought, In Numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong: Who first on Mountains wild, In Fancy loveliest Child, Thy Babe, or Pleasure's, nurs'd the Pow'rs of Song! Thou, who with Hermit Heart Disdain'st the Wealth of Art...
Стр. 223 - Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still The pensive Pleasures sweet Prepare thy shadowy car.
Стр. 163 - Behold ! and look away your low despair, — See the light tenants of the barren air ; To them nor stores nor granaries belong, Nought but the woodland, and the pleasing song ; Yet your kind Heavenly Father bends His eye On the least wing that flits along the sky.
Стр. 223 - Bat, With short shrill Shriek flits by on leathern Wing, Or where the Beetle winds His small but sullen Horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight Path, Against the Pilgrim born in heedless Hum: Now teach me, Maid compos'd, To breathe some soften'd Strain, Whose Numbers stealing thro' thy dark'ning Vale, May not unseemly with its Stillness suit, As musing slow, I hail Thy genial lov'd Return!
Стр. 243 - There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill, 'Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet ; Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meet Beneath each birken shade on mead or hill. There each trim lass that skims the milky store To the swart tribes their creamy bowl allots ; By night they sip it round the cottage-door, While airy minstrels warble jocund notes.
Стр. 179 - The Muses, still with freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair: Blest isle! with matchless beauty crowned, And manly hearts to guard the fair. 'Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves.
Стр. 168 - Tell me, thou soul of her I love, Ah ! tell me, whither art thou fled ; To what delightful world above, Appointed for the happy dead? Or dost thou, free, at pleasure, roam And sometimes share thy lover's woe...

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