Selections from the British Poets: Chronologically Arranged from Chaucer to the Present Time, Under Separate Divisions, with Introductions Explaining the Different Species of PoetryCommissioners of National Education in Ireland, 1851 |
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12 ÆäÀÌÁö
... thee torch light , fear no more ; Now when thou diest , thou canst not hoodwink'd be . And thou , my soul , which turn'st with curious eye To view the beams of thine own form divine , Now , that thou canst know nothing perfectly , While ...
... thee torch light , fear no more ; Now when thou diest , thou canst not hoodwink'd be . And thou , my soul , which turn'st with curious eye To view the beams of thine own form divine , Now , that thou canst know nothing perfectly , While ...
14 ÆäÀÌÁö
... thee depend , in their due season fed ; They gather what thy bounteous hands bestow , And in the summer of thy favour grow . When thou contract'st thy clouded brows , they mourn , And dying , to their former dust return ; Again created ...
... thee depend , in their due season fed ; They gather what thy bounteous hands bestow , And in the summer of thy favour grow . When thou contract'st thy clouded brows , they mourn , And dying , to their former dust return ; Again created ...
15 ÆäÀÌÁö
... thee of life's wasting day : Thy sun posts westward , passed is thy morn , And twice it is not given thee to be born . FRANCIS BEAUMONT . BORN , 1586 ; DIED , 1615 Pleasures of Retirement, No Trust in Time,
... thee of life's wasting day : Thy sun posts westward , passed is thy morn , And twice it is not given thee to be born . FRANCIS BEAUMONT . BORN , 1586 ; DIED , 1615 Pleasures of Retirement, No Trust in Time,
16 ÆäÀÌÁö
... thee ? what dull sense Makes thee suspect , in need , that Providence , Who made the morning , and who plac'd the light Guide to thy labours ? Who call'd up the night , And bid her fall upon thee like sweet show'rs In hollow murmurs ...
... thee ? what dull sense Makes thee suspect , in need , that Providence , Who made the morning , and who plac'd the light Guide to thy labours ? Who call'd up the night , And bid her fall upon thee like sweet show'rs In hollow murmurs ...
21 ÆäÀÌÁö
... thee ? Or what's my mother or my nurse to me ? I love the air ; her dainty fruits refresh 21 My drooping soul , and to new.sweets invite me ; Her shrill mouth'd choirs sustain me with their flesh , And with their polyphonian notes ...
... thee ? Or what's my mother or my nurse to me ? I love the air ; her dainty fruits refresh 21 My drooping soul , and to new.sweets invite me ; Her shrill mouth'd choirs sustain me with their flesh , And with their polyphonian notes ...
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ALEXANDER POPE AMERICAN POETRY beauty beneath birds bless blest bliss bloom BORN bowers breast breath bright calm charms clouds dark death deep delight Descriptive Poetry DIED doth earth English Poetry eternal fair flowers gaze GILES FLETCHER gloom glorious glory glow grave green happy hast hath heart heaven hills hope hour HYMN JAMES THOMSON labour LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON life's light live look Lord MARK AKENSIDE mighty mind morning mortal mountain mourn murmur nature nature's night numbers o'er pastoral pastoral poetry peace pleasure poetry poets praise prayer rest rill rise ROBERT SOUTHEY round sacred scene shade shine sigh silent skies sleep smile soft song sorrow soul spirit spring stars stream sweet tears tempest thee THEOCRITUS thine things thou art thought toil trees trembling vale voice wave weary wild WILLIAM COWPER WILLIAM WORDSWORTH wind wings youth
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59 ÆäÀÌÁö - Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; Wait the great teacher Death ; and God adore. What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always to be blest. The soul, uneasy and confined, from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come...
204 ÆäÀÌÁö - Let's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; And — when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of — say, I taught thee...
203 ÆäÀÌÁö - To die, to sleep ; To sleep : perchance to dream : ay, there's the rub ; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause : there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life...
429 ÆäÀÌÁö - So many hours must I tend my flock; So many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate; So many hours must I sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young; So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean; So many years ere I shall shear the fleece: So minutes, hours, days, months and years, Pass'd over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
204 ÆäÀÌÁö - How many thousand of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep ! — O Sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down...
325 ÆäÀÌÁö - I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I REMEMBER, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn ; He never came a wink too soon. Nor brought too long a day ; But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away ! I remember, I remember...
144 ÆäÀÌÁö - We need not bid, for cloister'd cell, Our neighbour and our work farewell, Nor strive to wind ourselves too high For sinful man beneath the sky : The trivial round, the common task, Would furnish all we ought to ask ; Room to deny ourselves ; a road To bring us, daily, nearer God.
375 ÆäÀÌÁö - And, when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, Of pine, or monumental oak, Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke, Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
11 ÆäÀÌÁö - This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; Lord of himself, though not of lands ; And having nothing, yet hath all.
355 ÆäÀÌÁö - HAPPY the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire ; Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire.