The poetical works of ... E. Young. With the life of the author. Cooke's ed, Band 1

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Seite 43 - The chamber where the good man meets his fate, Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heav'n.
Seite 25 - tis madness to defer ; Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life. Procrastination is the thief of time ; Year after year it steals, till all are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
Seite 15 - From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose I wake : how happy they who wake no more ! Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave.
Seite 197 - All the black cares and tumults of this life, Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet, Excite his pity, not impair his peace.
Seite 57 - While reason and religion, better taught, Congratulate the dead, and crown his tomb With wreath triumphant.
Seite 62 - From darkness, teeming darkness, where I lay The worm's inferior, and, in rank, beneath The dust I tread on, high to bear my brow, To drink the spirit of the golden day, And triumph in existence ; and couldst know No motive, but my bliss ; and hast ordain'd A rise in blessing ! with the patriarch's joy...
Seite 30 - How heavily we drag the load of life! Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain, It makes us wander, wander earth around, To fly that tyrant Thought. As Atlas groan'd The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour.
Seite 25 - How excellent that life they ne'er will lead! Time lodg'd in their own hands is Folly's vails ; That lodg'd in Fate's to wisdom they consign ; The thing they can't but purpose they postpone.
Seite 119 - Enjoy the various riches nature yields ; Far nobler ! give the riches they enjoy ; Give taste to fruits ; and harmony to groves ; Their radiant beams to gold, and gold's bright...
Seite 21 - Here, plung'd in mines, forgets a sun was made. There, beings deathless as their haughty lord, Are hammer'd to the galling oar for life ; And plough the winter's wave, and reap despair. Some, for hard masters, broken under arms, In battle lopt away, with half their limbs, Beg bitter bread thro' realms their valour sav'd, If so the tyrant, or his minion, doom.

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