The Poetical Works ...

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Macmillan & Company, 1882
 

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Seite 277 - Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves ; And ye that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune...
Seite 146 - Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast; no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise, or blame; nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble.
Seite 6 - OF man's first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste Brought death into the world, and all our woe, With loss of Eden, till one greater Man Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, Sing, heavenly Muse...
Seite 283 - He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? And questioned every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked promontory: They knew not of his story...
Seite 105 - Just are the ways of God, And justifiable to men ; Unless there be, who think not God at all . If any be, they walk obscure ; For of such doctrine never was there school, But the heart of the fool, And no man therein doctor but himself.
Seite 125 - It is not virtue, wisdom, valour, wit, Strength, comeliness of shape, or amplest merit That woman's love can win, or long inherit ; But what it is, hard is to say, Harder to hit, (Which way soever men refer it,) Much like thy riddle, Samson, in one day Or seven, though one should musing sit.
Seite 181 - Farewell happy fields, Where joy for ever dwells : Hail horrors, hail Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell, Receive thy new possessor ; one who brings A mind not to be chang'd by place or time. The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.
Seite 82 - Then to the well-trod stage anon If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
Seite 97 - A little onward lend thy guiding hand To these dark steps, a little further on; For yonder bank hath choice of sun or shade; There I am wont to sit, when any chance Relieves me from my task of servile toil, Daily...
Seite 118 - Out, out, hyaena ! these are thy wonted arts, And arts of every woman false like thee...

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