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arms beauties beneath bless bosom breast breath bright charms close dark dear death deep delight earth EPIGRAM fair fame fate fear feel fire flow fond Genius give glory glow grace green grove hand happy head hear heart Heaven hope hour joys kind late leave light live look mark mind morn Muse Nature never night o'er once pain peace plain pleasure poems praise present pride proud rest rise round sacred scenes shade sigh sleep Small smile soft song soon sorrows soul sound spirit spread spring strain stream sweet taste tear tell thee thine thou thought thro toil translation truth vain verse virtue voice volume wave wild winds wing wish written youth
Page 551 - Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff : you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them, they are not worth the search.
Page 419 - COME, take up your hats, And away let us haste To the Butterfly's ball And the Grasshopper's feast; The trumpeter Gadfly Has summon'd the crew, And the revels are now Only waiting for you.
Page 346 - SEE the leaves around us falling, Dry and withered, to the ground; Thus to thoughtless mortals calling, In a sad and solemn sound.
Page 419 - And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black, Who carried the Emmet, his friend, on his back ; And there was the Gnat, and the Dragon-fly too ; With all their relations, green, orange, and blue.
Page 102 - MY soul, praise the Lord, speak good of his name ! His mercies record, his bounties proclaim : To God, their creator, let all creatures raise The song of thanksgiving, the chorus of praise ! 2 Though hid from man's sight, God sits on his throne, Yet here by his works their Author is known : The world shines a mirror its Maker to show, And heaven views its image reflected below. 3...
Page 325 - He, who still wanting, tho' he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: And He, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: And He, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, It is not Poetry, but prose run mad: All these, my modest Satire bade translate, And own'd that nine such Poets made a Tate.
Page 420 - Snail, with his horns peeping out from his shell, Came from a great distance — the length of an ell. A mushroom their table, and on it was laid A water-dock leaf, which a table-cloth made ; The viands were various, to each of their taste, And the Bee brought his honey to crown the repast. There, close on his haunches, so solemn and wise, The Frog from a corner looked up to the skies ; And the Squirrel, well pleased such diversion to see, Sat cracking his nuts overhead in a tree.
Page 220 - Wide as th' inspiring Phoebus darts his ray, Diffusive splendor gilds his votary's lay. Whether the song heroic woes rehearse, With epic grandeur, and the pomp of verse ; Or, fondly gay, with unambitious guile, Attempt no prize but favouring beauty's smile ; Or bear dejected to the lonely grove • The soft despair of unprevailing love, — Whate'er the theme — through every age and clime Congenial passions meet th' according rhyme ; The pride of glory — pity's sigh sincere — Youth's earliest...
Page 221 - Th' expressive glance — whose subtle comment draws Entranced attention, and a mute applause; Gesture that marks , with force and feeling fraught , A sense in silence, and a will in thought; Harmonious speech, whose pure and liquid tone Gives verse a music, scarce confess'd its own...