Poems. By Mr. Gray

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J. Murray, 1790 - 178 sider

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Side 156 - customed hill, Along the heath and near his favourite tree ; Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he : The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
Side 56 - 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.
Side 100 - Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes: Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm: Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey.
Side 45 - To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of Man: And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began.
Side 89 - Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate. Beneath the Good how far— but far above the Great.
Side 96 - To arms ! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance.. I. 2 On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet stood ; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air) And with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.
Side 156 - There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Side 149 - THE CURFEW tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Side 60 - A grisly troop are seen, The painful family of Death, More hideous than their Queen: This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That every labouring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage: Lo!
Side 60 - Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate. Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise! No more; — where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.

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