LycidasDe La More Press, 1903 - 30 من الصفحات |
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الصفحة 29 - There entertain him all the saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet societies, That sing, and singing, in their glory move And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
الصفحة 13 - That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring ; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse ; So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destined urn ; And as he passes turn, And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
الصفحة 22 - Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold ! Of other care they little reckoning make, Than how to scramble at the shearers...
الصفحة 19 - Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears: "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.
الصفحة 23 - And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw...
الصفحة 27 - Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old. Where the great Vision of the guarded mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold, — Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth ; And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.
الصفحة 18 - Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days : But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears And slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise...
الصفحة 16 - Ay me ! I fondly dream ! Had ye been there, for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself for her enchanting son, Whom universal nature did lament...
الصفحة 24 - Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells and flowrets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, That on the green turf suck the honied showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
الصفحة 26 - For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding Seas Wash far away, where e'er thy bones are hurled, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides...