Gray's English Poems: Original, and Translated from the Norse and Welsh

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At the University Press, 1898 - 290 pages
 

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Page 127 - Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there!
Page 26 - For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Page 83 - With even step, and musing gait, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: There, held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad leaden downward cast, Thou fix them on the earth as fast; And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet...
Page 1 - That every labouring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage ; Lo ! Poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow-consuming Age.
Page xiv - Windsor's heights th' expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver-winding way...
Page 129 - Tis said, and I believe the tale, Thy humblest reed could more prevail Had more of strength, diviner rage, Than all which charms this laggard age...
Page xiii - Phoebus lifts his golden fire : The birds in vain their amorous descant join, Or cheerful fields resume their green attire. These ears, alas! for other notes repine; A different object do these eyes require: My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine: And in my breast the imperfect joys expire...
Page 44 - Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail 'To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, 'From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!
Page xiv - A stranger yet to pain ! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring.
Page 118 - O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat, With short shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum...

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