Imatges de pÓgina

While rocks and floods reflect the quivering gleam,
The whole air whitens with a boundless tide
Of silver radiance, trembling round the world.

Thomson's Seasons-Autumn.

The moon arose; she shone upon the lake,
That lay one smooth expanse of silver light;
She shone upon the hills and rocks, and cast
Upon their hollows and their hidden glens
A blacker depth of shade.


Southey's Madoc.

See! the dapple grey coursers of the morn,
Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs,
And chase it through the sky.

Marston's Antonia and Melida.

Now from night's womb the glorious day breaks forth, And seems to kindle from the setting stars.

Lee's Lucius Junius Brutus.

Sullen, methinks, and slow the morning breaks,
As if the sun were listless to appear,

And dark designs hang heavy on the day.

Dryden's Duke of Guise.

See! the night wears away, and cheerful morn,
All sweet and fresh, spreads from the rosy East;
Fair Nature seems reviv'd, and ev'n my heart
Sits light and jocund at the day's return.

Rowe's Royal Convert, a. 4, s. 1.

Hail to the joyous day! with purple clouds
The whole horizon glows. The breezy Spring
Stands loosely floating on the mountain top,
And deals her sweets around. The sun too seems,
As conscious of my joy, with brighter beams,
To gild the happy world.

Thomson's Sophonisba, a. 5, s. 1.

Day takes his daily turn,

Rising between the gulphy dells of night
Like whiten'd billows on a gloomy sea.

Joanna Baillie's Orra, a. 5, s. 2.

Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds.

Milton's Paradise Lost.

Now morn her rosy steps in th' eastern clime
Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl.

Ibid. b. 5.


My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found,
Heav'n's last best gift, my ever new delight,
Awake; the morning shines, and the fresh field
Calls us; we lose the prime, to mark how spring.
Our tender plants, how blows the citron grove,
What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed,
How nature paints her colours, how the bee
Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet.


Thus pass'd the night so foul, till morning fair Came forth with pilgrim steps in amice gray. "Milton's Paradise Regained, b. 4.

The birds,

Who all things now behold more fresh and green,
After a night of storm so ruinous,

Clear'd пр their choicest notes in bush and spray
To gratulate the sweet return of morn.

O'er yonder eastern hill the twilight pale-
Walks forth from darkness; and the god of day,
With bright Astræa seated by his side,

Waits yet to leave the ocean.



See, how at once the bright-effulgent sun,
Rising direct, swift chases from the sky
The short-liv'd twilight; and with ardent blaze
Looks gaily fierce o'er all the dazzling air.

Thomson's Seasons-Summer.

Now, flaming up the heavens, the potent sun
Melts into limpid air the high-raised clouds,
And morning fogs, that hover'd round the hills,
In party-colour'd bands; till wide unveil'd
The face of nature shines, from where earth seems
Far stretch'd around, to meet the bending sphere.

The meek-ey'd morn appears, mother of dews,
At first faint gleaming in the dappled East :
Till far o'er ether spreads the wid'ning glow;
And, from before the lustre of her face,


White break the clouds away. With quicken'd step,
Brown night retires: young day pours in арасе,
And opens all the lawny prospect wide.

The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top

Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn. Ibid.

Hence every harsher sight! for now the day
O'er heaven and earth diffus'd, grows warm, and high;
Infinite splendour! wide investing all.


The lengthened night elaps'd, the morning shines
Serene, in all her dewy beauty bright,
Unfolding fair the last autumnal day.
And now the mounting sun dispels the fog;
The rigid hoar-frost melts before his beam;
And hung on every spray, on every blade

Of grass, the myriad dew-drops twinkle round. Ibid.

'Tis morning; and the sun with ruddy orb Ascending fires the horizon. Cowper's Task, b. 5.


Day dawns, the twilight gleam dilates,
The sun comes forth, and, like a god,


Rides through rejoicing heaven. Southey's Thalaba.

Day glimmered in the east, and the white moon
Hung like a vapour in the cloudless sky.


Rogers's Italy.

Who first beholds those everlasting clouds,
Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon, and night,
Still where they were, steadfast, immoveable;
Who first beholds the Alps-that mighty chain
Of mountains, stretching on from east to west,
So massive, yet so shadowy, so ethereal,
As to belong rather to heaven than earth-
But instantly receives into his soul.

A sense, a feeling that he loses not,

A something that informs him 'tis a moment
Whence he may date henceforward and for ever?


All his ingredients

Are a sheep's gall, a roasted bitch's marrow,
Some few sod earwigs, pounded caterpillars,
A little capon's grease, and fasting spittle :
I know them to a ‹ram.


Ben Jonson's Volpone.


Is there a crime

Beneath the roof of heaven, that stains the soul
Of man, with more infernal hue, than damn'd
Cibber's Casar in Egypt.

Twice it call'd, so loudly call'd,

With horrid strength, beyond the pitch of nature;
And murder! murder! was the dreadful cry.

A third time it return'd with feeble strength,
But o' the sudden ceased, as tho' the words
Were smother'd rudely in the grappled throat,
And all was still again, save the wild blast
Which at a distance growl'd-

Oh! it will never from my mind depart!
That dreadful cry, all i' the instant still'd.

Joanna Baillie's De Monfort, a. 5, s. 1.


I know ye both-ye are slaves that for a ducat
Would rend the screaming infant from the breast
To plunge it in the flames;

Yea, draw your keen knives 'cross a father's throat,
And carve with them the bloody meal

ye earned.

Maturin's Bertram, a. 4, s. 1.

Aye, heaven and earth do cry, impossible,
The shuddering angels round the eternal throne,
Veiling themselves in glory, shriek, impossible,
But hell doth know it true.

Ibid. a. 5, s. 1.

Hear thou, and hope not-if by word or deed,
Yea, by invisible thought, unuttered wish,
Thou hast been ministrant to this horrid act-
With full collected force of malediction

I do pronounce unto thy soul-despair.


Cease, triflers; would you have me feel remorse, Leave me alone-nor cell, nor chain, nor dungeon, Speaks to the murderer with the voice of solitude.

Ibid. a. 5, s. 3.

Oh! thou dead

And everlasting witness! whose unsinking

Blood darkens earth and heaven! what thou now art,
I know not! but if thou see'st what I am,

I think thou wilt forgive him, whom his God
Can ǹe'er forgive, nor his own soul.-Farewell!
Byron's Cain, a. 3.

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