Imatges de pÓgina

But then her face,

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,

The overflowings of an innocent heart. Rogers's Italy.


Oh, thou gentle scene

Of sweet repose, where, by th' oblivious draught
Of each sad toilsome day to peace restor❜d,
Unhappy mortals lose their woes awhile;
Thou hast no peace for me!

Thomson's Tancred and Sigismunda..


But like the birds, great nature's happy commoners, That haunt in woods, in meads, and flow'ry gardens, Rifle the sweets and taste the choicest fruits,

Yet scorn to ask the lordly owner's leave.

Rowe's Fair Penitent, a. 2, s. 3.

Up springs the lark,

Shrill voic'd, and loud, the messenger of morn;
Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings
Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts
Calls up the tuneful nations.

Thomson's Seasons-Spring.

Every copse

Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush
Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads
Of the coy quiristers that lodge within,
Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush
And wood-lark, o'er the kind-contending throng
Superior heard, run through the sweetest length
Of notes; when listening Philomela deigns
To let them joy, and purposes, in thought.
Elate, to make her night excel the day.


All abandon'd to despair, she sings
Her sorrows through the night; and, on the bough
Sole-sitting, still at every dying fall
Takes up again her lamentable strain

Of winding woe; till, wide around, the woods
Sigh to her song, and with her wail resound.

Thomson's Seasons-Spring.

'Tis love creates their melody, and all
This waste of music is the voice of love;
That even to birds, and beasts, the tender arts
Of pleasing teaches. Hence the glossy kind
Try every winning way inventive love

Can dictate, and in courtship to their mates
Pour forth their little souls.

Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one
The live-long night: nor these alone whose notes
Nice-finger'd art must emulate in vain,


But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime
In still repeated circles, screaming loud,
The jay, the pie, and ev'n the boding owl
That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.
Cowper's Task, b. 1.

Loud sung
the lark, the awakened maid
Beheld him twinkling in the morning light,

And wish'd for wings and liberty like his.


Southey's Thalaba.

Alas! this day

First gave me birth, and (which is strange to tell)
The fates e'er since, as watching its return,
Have caught it as it flew, and mark'd it deep
With something great; extremes of good or ill.

Young's Busiris, a. 1.


Oh happiness of blindness! Now no beauty
Inflames my lust; no others good my envy,
Or misery my pity: no man's wealth
Draws my respect, nor poverty my scorn.
Yet still I see enough! man to himself
Is a large prospect, rais'd above the level.

Denham's Sophy.

Thus with the year

Seasons return, but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of ev'n or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human voice divine;
But cloud instead, and ever-during dark
Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men
Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair
Presented with an universal blank

Of nature's works to me expung'd and ras'd,
And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.
Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 3.

O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon,
Irrevocably dark, total eclipse
Without all hope of day!

O first created beam, and thou great Word,
Let there be light, and light was over all;
Why am I thus bereav'd thy prime decree ?

Milton's Samson Agonistes.


From every blush that kindles in thy cheeks,
Ten thousand little loves and graces spring
To revel in the roses.

Rowe's Tamerlane.

Confound me not with shame, nor call up all
The blood that warms my trembling heart
To fill my cheeks with blushes. Trap's Abramule.
Confusion thrill'd me then, and secret joy,

Fast throbbing, stole its treasures from my heart,
And mantling upward, turn'd my face to crimson.

Brooke's Gustavus Vasa.


So spake the apostate angel, though in pain,
Vaunting aloud, but rack'd with deep despair.

Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 1.

We rise in glory, as we sink in pride:

Where boasting ends, there dignity begins.

Young's Night Thoughts, n. 8.



Pure was the temp'rate air, an even calm
Perpetual reign'd, save what the zephyrs bland
Breath'd o'er the blue expanse.

Thomson's Seasons-Spring.

Gradual sinks the breeze

Into a perfect calm; that not a breath
Is heard to quiver thro' the closing woods,
Or rustling turn the many-twinkling leaves
Of aspin tall. The uncurling floods, diffus'd
In glassy breadth, seem thro' delusive lapse
Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all,
And pleasing expectation,




The brave do never shun the light;

Just are their thoughts, and open are their tempers; Freely without disguise they love or hate :

Still are they found in the fair face of day,

And heav'n and men are judges of their actions.

Rowe's Fair Penitent.

'Tis great, 'tis manly, to disdain disguise ;
It shows our spirit, or it proves our strength.

Young's Night Thoughts, n. 8.


To hate whoe'er dissent from what they teach,
To purge the world from heresy by blood,
To massacre a nation, and believe it

An act well-pleasing to the Lord of Mercy.

These are thy gods, oh Rome! and this thy faith. Rowe's Lady Jane Grey, a. 1, s. 1.

'Tis wrong to trust

Those, whom their very priests instruct to keep

No faith with us.

Havard's Scanderbeg.


Man's caution often into danger turns,

And his guard falling, crushes him to death.

Young's Night Thoughts, n. 1.


The secret pleasure of a generous act

Is the great mind's great bribe.

Dryden's Don Sebastian.

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