The Muse's Pocket Companion. A Collection of Poems: By Lord Carlisle. Lord Lyttelton. Hon. C. Fox. ...
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arms bear beauty beneath bleft bloom bofom bower breaft bright charms cold dark dear death deep delight ev'ry face faid fail fair fame fancy fate fear feel fhade fhall fields figh fire flame flow fmile foft fome fond fong foon foul fpread ftill fuch fweet gave gentle grace grief grove hand head hear heart heaven hills hope hour kind land light live lonely Lord maid meet mind morn mountains Mufe Nature never night o'er pain pale PERCY plain pleaſure poor pride rage rife rocks round tale tear tell tender thee thefe theſe thine thofe thou thought toil truth vale virtue voice waves wealth weep whofe wild wonder wood young youth
Page 223 - THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Page 174 - Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose. I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my...
Page 181 - To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for a father's arms.
Page 177 - The village master taught his little school; A man severe he was and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers...
Page 193 - Though equal to all things, for all things unfit; Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, disobedient; And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
Page 195 - And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, Adopting his portraits, are pleas'd with their own. Say, where has our poet this malady caught ? Or wherefore his characters thus without fault ? Say, was it that vainly directing his view To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself.
Page 171 - How often have I blest the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree...
Page 227 - 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.
Page 176 - At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.
Page 167 - And thou fair Freedom, taught alike to feel The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel...