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ancient awful bear beauty beneath bow'rs breaſt breathe bright Bring brow cauſe cheek death deep delight divine ev'ry fair fall fame Fancy fate field fire firſt flow flower fons foul freſh give glory grace green hand head hear heart Heav'n hills hold hope king land laſt laws lead leave light maid mild mind morn Muſe nature night nymph o'er o’er once OXFORD peace plain praiſe prince proud Queen rage reign reſt riſe round ſcene ſee ſhade ſhall ſhe ſhine ſmiles ſome ſon ſong ſoul ſound ſpread ſtand ſtate ſtill ſtream ſuch ſweet tear tell tender thee theſe thine thoſe thou thought thro throne train vain vale virtue voice wave whoſe winds wings wood Youth
Side 68 - One morn I missed him on the 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 can'st read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
Side 65 - 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 65 - The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 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.
Side 68 - There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Side 69 - Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth, And melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere...
Side 65 - Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
Side 66 - And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Side 40 - Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit ; As musing slow I hail Thy genial loved return. For when thy folding-star * arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant Hours, and Elves 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.