The County Magazine, 1권B.C. Collins, 1788 |
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360 페이지 - Ye winds, that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me ? O tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see.
105 페이지 - Forsake not an old friend, for the new is not comparable to him : a new friend is as new wine ; when it is old thou shalt drink it with pleasure.
46 페이지 - We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy, till the darkness of old age begins to invade us, and disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look back upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repentance ; and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue.
35 페이지 - Theirs is yon House that holds the parish poor, Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door ; There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play, And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; — • There children dwell who know no parents...
246 페이지 - Just in the dubious point, where with the pool Is mix'd the trembling stream, or where it boils Around the stone, or from the hollow'd bank Reverted plays in undulating flow, There throw, nice-judging, the delusive fly; And as you lead it round in artful curve, With eye attentive mark the springing game.
46 페이지 - by what chance thou hast been brought hither ; I have been now twenty years an inhabitant of the wilderness, in which I never saw a man before.
46 페이지 - He did not, however, forget whither he was travelling, but found a narrow way bordered with flowers...
48 페이지 - ... the lion in his rage I meet ! Oft in the dust I view his printed feet ; And fearful oft, when Day's declining light Yields her pale empire to the mourner Night, By hunger...
17 페이지 - To fill the ambition of a private man, That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own.
247 페이지 - Thee dispos'd into congenial soils, Stands each attractive plant, and sucks, and swells The juicy tide; a twining mass of tubes. At Thy command the vernal sun awakes The torpid sap, detruded to the root By wintry winds; that now in fluent dance, And lively fermentation, mounting, spreads All this innumerous-coloured scene of things.