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Page 187 - Let there be light, and light was over all; Why am I thus bereaved thy prime decree? The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
Page 184 - Dcpress'd, and overthrown, as seem'd, Like that self-begotten bird In the Arabian woods embost, That no second knows nor third, And lay ere while a holocaust, From out her ashy womb now teem'd, Revives, reflourishes, then vigorous most When most unactive deem'd ; And, though her body die, her fame survives A secular bird ages of lives.
Page 177 - A little onward lend thy guiding hand To these dark steps, a little further on; For yonder bank hath choice of sun or shade; There I am wont to sit, when any chance Relieves me from my task of servile toil, Daily in the common prison else enjoin'd me, Where I, a prisoner chain'd, scarce freely draw The air imprison'd also, close and damp, Unwholesome draught.
Page 203 - Before great Agamemnon reign'd, Reign'd kings as great as he, and brave, Whose huge ambition's now contain'd In the small compass of a grave : In endless night they sleep, unwept, unknown : No bard had they to make all time their own.
Page 186 - In all her functions weary of herself, My race of glory run, and race of shame, And I shall shortly be with them that rest.
Page 207 - Venus, take my votive glass, Since I am not what I was ; What from this day I shall be, venus, let me never see.
Page 188 - POLITICIANS have long observed, that the greatest events may be often traced back to slender causes. Petty competition or casual friendship, the prudence of a slave, or the garrulity of a woman, have hindered or promoted the most important schemes, and hastened or retarded the revolutions of empire.
Page 205 - And, when I die, be sure you let me know Great Homer died three thousand years ago. Why did I write? what sin to me unknown Dipp'd me in ink, my parents', or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
Page 184 - I not been thus exiled from light; As in the land of darkness yet in light, To live a life half dead, a living death, And buried; but O yet more miserable! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave, Buried, yet not exempt By privilege of death and burial From worst of other evils, pains and wrongs, But made hereby obnoxious more To all the miseries of life, Life in captivity Among inhuman foes.