The British Poets: Including Translations ...

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C. Whittingham, 1822
 

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Page 227 - Tempe's vale, her native maids, Amidst the festal sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing, While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round: Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
Page 226 - Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul : And dashing soft from rocks around Bubbling runnels join'd the sound ; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.
Page 224 - WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell...
Page 217 - Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still The pensive Pleasures sweet Prepare thy shadowy car.
Page 177 - Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak.
Page 177 - The Muses, still with freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair: Blest isle! with matchless beauty crowned, And manly hearts to guard the fair. 'Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves.
Page 166 - Tell me, thou soul of her I love, Ah ! tell me, whither art thou fled ; To what delightful world above, Appointed for the happy dead? Or dost thou, free, at pleasure, roam And sometimes share thy lover's woe...
Page 229 - mid the varied landscape weep. But thou, who own'st that earthly bed, Ah! what will every dirge avail; Or tears, which Love and Pity shed, That mourn beneath the gliding sail? Yet lives there one whose heedless eye Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near ? With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die, And Joy desert the blooming year.
Page 210 - And hid'st in wreaths of flowers his bloodless sword ! Thou who, amidst the deathful field, By godlike chiefs alone beheld, Oft with thy bosom bare art found, Pleading for him the youth who sinks to ground : See, Mercy, see, with pure and loaded hands, Before thy shrine my country's genius stands, And decks thy altar still, tho' pierc'd with many a wound ! ANTISTROPHE.
Page 239 - There, must thou wake, perforce, thy Doric quill: 'Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet; Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meet, Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill. There, each trim lass, that skims the milky store, To the swart tribes their creamy bowls allots ; By night they sip it round the cottage door, While airy minstrels warble jocund notes.

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