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Página 63 - Require the borrow'd gloss of art ? Speak not of fate : ah ! change the theme, And talk of odours, talk of wine, Talk of the flowers that round us bloom : 'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream ; To love and joy thy thoughts confine, Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom.
Página 61 - SWEET maid, if thou would'st charm my sight, And bid these arms thy neck infold ; That rosy cheek, that lily hand, • Would give thy poet more delight Than all Bocara's vaunted gold, Than all the gems of Samarcand.
Página 177 - And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath ; But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.
Página 21 - He trod the sounding floor with princely mien, And thus with haughty words address'd the queen — ' Let falling kings beneath my javelin bleed, And bind my temples with a victor's meed; Let every realm that feels the solar ray Shrink at my frown, and own my regal sway: Let Ind's rich banks declare my deathless fame, And trembling Ganges dread my potent name.
Página 141 - Here strain'd with azure, there bedropp'd with gold : Thus on the alter'd Chief both armies gaze, And both the Kings are fix'd with deep amaze. The sword which arm'd the snow-white Maid before, He now assumes, and hurls the spear no more ; Then springs, indignant, on the dark-rob'd band, And Knights and Archers feel his deadly hand. Now flies the Monarch of the sable shield, His legions vanquish'd, o'er the lonely field : So when the morn, by rosy coursers drawn...
Página 90 - The sparkling dewdrops o'er the lilies play, Like orient pearls, or like the beams of day. If love and mirth your wanton thoughts engage, Attend, ye nymphs! (a poet's words are sage).
Página 102 - Oberon the fairy, with a particular charge not to bestow his daughter upon any one who could not play the same tune upon it as at that time he entertained him with. When the time that he had...
Página 79 - Steep arching rocks, with verdant moss o'ergrown , Form her rude diadem, and native throne: There, in a gloomy cave her waters sleep, Clear as a brook, but as an ocean deep. Yet, when the waking flowers of April blow, And warmer...