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Página 194 - Tis here with boundless power I reign; And every health which I begin, Converts dull port to bright champagne; Such freedom crowns it at an inn. I fly from pomp, I fly from plate, I fly from falsehood's specious grin! Freedom I love, and form I hate, And choose my lodgings at an inn.
Página 291 - First, I commend my soul into the hands of God my creator, hoping, and assuredly believing, through the only merits of Jesus Christ my Saviour, to be made partaker of life everlasting; and my body to the earth whereof it is made.
Página 382 - AT the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapor through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Página 140 - Her speech was the melodious voice of Love, Her song the warbling of the vernal grove ; Her eloquence was sweeter than her song, Soft as her heart, and as her reason strong; Her form each beauty of her mind express'd, Her mind was Virtue by the Graces dress'd.
Página 120 - The whole creation round. Contentment walks The sunny glade, and feels an inward bliss Spring o'er his mind, beyond the power of kings To purchase. Pure serenity apace Induces thought and contemplation still. By swift degrees the love of Nature works, And warms the bosom ; till at last, sublimed To rapture and enthusiastic heat, We feel the present Deity, and taste The joy of GOD to see a happy world...
Página 129 - Invested with a keen diffusive sky. Breathing the soul acute : her forests huge, Incult, robust, and tall, by Nature's hand Planted of old ; her azure lakes between...
Página 321 - I reckon it among my principal advantages, as a composer of verses, that I have not read an English poet these thirteen years, and but one these twenty years. Imitation, even of the best models, is my aversion; it is servile and mechanical, a trick that has enabled many to usurp the name of author, who could not have written at all, if they had not written upon the pattern of somebody indeed original.
Página 47 - Looking tranquillity ! It strikes an awe And terror on my aching sight; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a dullness to my trembling heart. Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice; Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear Thy voice — my own affrights me with its echoes.