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Seite 57 - How often have I blest the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree...
Seite 57 - And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round ; And still as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; The dancing pair that simply sought renown, By holding out to tire each other down...
Seite 46 - No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither with modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it; as thus: Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth...
Seite 77 - The western waves of ebbing day Roll'd o'er the glen their level way ; Each purple peak, each flinty spire, Was bathed in floods of living fire. But not a setting beam could glow Within the dark ravines below...
Seite 70 - Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody...
Seite 72 - I was not in safety, neither had I rest, and the trouble came." The pedestal below is inscribed — To PENELOPE, Only child of Sir Brooke Boothby, and Dame Susannah Boothby, Born, April llth, 1785.— Died, March 13th, 1791. She was in form and intellect most exquisite. The unfortunate parents ventured their all on this frail bark, and the wreck was total.