The British Poets: Including Translations ...

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C. Whittingham, 1822
 

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Seite 61 - How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man! How passing wonder He who made him such, Who centred in our make such strange extremes!
Seite 61 - The bell strikes one. We take no note of time, But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the, knell of my departed hours : Where are they? With the years beyond the flood.
Seite 91 - The chamber where the good man meets his fate Is privileged beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of Heaven.
Seite 101 - O'erwhelming turrets threaten ere they fall ; Volcanos bellow ere they disembogue ; Earth trembles ere her yawning jaws devour ; And smoke betrays the wide-consuming fire : Ruin from man is most conceal'd when near, And sends the dreadful tidings in the blow. Is this the flight of fancy ? Would it were ! Heaven's sovereign saves all beings, but himself, That hideous sight, a naked human heart.
Seite 182 - The meanest slave ; all more is merit's due, Her sacred and inviolable right Nor ever paid the monarch, but the man. Our hearts ne'er bow but to superior worth ; Nor ever fail of their allegiance there. Fools, indeed, drop the man in their account, And vote the mantle into majesty.
Seite 194 - Horrid with frost, and turbulent with storm, Blows autumn, and his golden fruits, away : Then melts into the spring : soft spring, with breath Favonian, from warm chambers of the south, Recalls the first. All, to re-flourish, fades ; As in a wheel, all sinks, to re-ascend. Emblems of man, who passes, not expires.
Seite 62 - O'er fairy fields ; or mourn'd along the gloom Of pathless woods ; or, down the craggy steep Hurl'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled pool ; Or scaled the cliff; or danced on hollow winds, With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain...
Seite 81 - But why on time so lavish is my song? On this great theme kind Nature keeps a school To teach her sons herself. Each night we die; Each morn are born anew; each day a life!
Seite 182 - But wherefore envy \ Talents angel-bright, If wanting worth, are shining instruments In false ambition's hand, to finish faults Illustrious, and give infamy renown.
Seite 69 - There's no prerogative in human hours. In human hearts what bolder thought can rise, Than man's presumption on to-morrow's dawn? Where is to-morrow? In another world. For numbers this is certain; the reverse Is sure to none: and yet on this perhaps...

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