Posthumous poems. Translations from Vincent Bourne. Translations of the Latin and Italian poems of Milton. Epigrams tr. from the Latin of Owen. Translations of Greek verses. Translations from the Fables of Gay. Adam: a sacred drama, tr. from the Italian of Andreini
Baldwin and Cradock, 1837
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Adam angels appear arms Behold beneath birds bosom breast breath bright brow close dark dear death deep delight desire divine dread earth eternal eyes fair fall Father fear feel field fire flame FLESH flowers force fruit give glory gold grace hand happy hast hear heard heart heaven hell Hence hope human kind leaves length less light live looks Lord lost LUCIFER mighty mind Muse nature never night o'er once pain praise prove pure raise rest rise SCENE seat seek SERPENT shade shalt shore side sight sing song soon soul sound speak spirit spring stars stream sweet tears tell thee thine things thou thou hast thought tree true turn verse voice wings wish youth
Side 85 - T was my distress that brought thee low, My Mary ! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more ; My Mary ! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still...
Side 1 - Toll for the brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side. A land breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset; Down went the Royal George, With all her crew complete.
Side 67 - Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay, So thou, with sails how swift, hast reached the shore 'Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,' And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
Side 5 - Why did All-creating Nature Make the plant for which we toil ? Sighs must fan it, tears must water, Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters iron-hearted, Lolling at your jovial boards, Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords.
Side 98 - Adieu!' At length, his transient respite past, His comrades, who before Had heard his voice in every blast, Could catch the sound no more: For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank. No poet wept him; but the page Of narrative sincere, That tells his name, his worth, his age Is wet with Anson's tear: And tears by bards or heroes shed Alike immortalize the dead.
Side 48 - Oh, could'st thou speak, As in Dodona once thy kindred trees Oracular, I would not curious ask The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, The clock of history, facts and events Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts Recov'ring, and misstated setting right...
Side 65 - It was. Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
Side 5 - Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, Is there One, who reigns on high ? Has He bid you buy and sell us, Speaking from his throne, the sky ? Ask him, if your knotted scourges, Matches, blood-extorting screws, Are the means...