Beautiful poetry, selected by the ed. of The Critic, Volume 6

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Page 51 - The praise of Bacchus then, the sweet musician sung, Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young: The jolly god in triumph comes ; Sound the trumpets ; beat the drums; Flush'd with a purple grace He shows his honest face: Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes. Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain ; Bacchus...
Page 344 - That never a hall such a galliard did grace: While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, "Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.
Page 53 - Now strike the golden lyre again! A louder yet, and yet a louder strain, Break his bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark, hark! the horrid sound Has raised up his head! As awaked from the dead, And amazed, he stares around. Revenge! revenge!
Page 51 - With flying fingers touched the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky And heavenly joys inspire. The song began from Jove Who left his blissful seats above, Such is the power of mighty love ! A dragon's fiery form belied the god; Sublime on radiant spires he rode When he to fair Olympia...
Page 319 - Chase from our minds the infernal foe, And peace, the fruit of love, bestow ; And, lest our feet should step astray, Protect and guide us in the way. Make us eternal truths receive, And practise all that we believe : Give us thyself, that we may see The Father, and the Son, by thee. Immortal honor, endless fame, Attend the...
Page 363 - He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And throws the melons at our feet; But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice...
Page 52 - Changed his hand and checked his pride. He chose a mournful muse Soft pity to infuse : He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen...
Page 31 - Sleepless ! and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees ; And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep ! by any stealth : So do not let me wear...
Page 347 - The poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot Sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead. That is the grasshopper's : he takes the lead In summer luxury he has never done With his delights, for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
Page 362 - I saw pale kings, and princes too, . Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried "La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!" I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill's side.

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