The Remains of Henry Kirke White: Of Nottingham, Late of St. John's College, Cambridge ; with an Account of His Life, المجلد 1

الغلاف الأمامي
Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, Paternoster Row., 1813 - 376 من الصفحات
 

ما يقوله الناس - كتابة مراجعة

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الصفحة 75 - Tired of earth And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft Through fields of air, pursues the flying storm, Rides on the vollied lightning through the heavens ; Or, yoked with whirlwinds, and the northern blast, Sweeps the long tract of day.
الصفحة 36 - What is this passing scene? A peevish April day! A little sun — a little rain, And then night sweeps along the plain. And all things fade away.
الصفحة 310 - When science' self destroyed her favourite son ! Yes ! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, She sowed the seeds, but death has reaped the fruit. 'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low. So the struck eagle...
الصفحة 323 - In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls, The village matron kept her little school, Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule; Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien; Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean; Her neatly...
الصفحة 36 - Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven, For thou severe wert sent from heaven To wean me from the world ; To turn my eye From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die.
الصفحة 19 - Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And I will bind thee round my brow ; And as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song: And sweet the strain shall be and long, The melody of death.
الصفحة 37 - Then since this world is vain, And volatile, and fleet, Why should I lay up earthly joys, Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, And cares and sorrows eat ? 'Why fly from ill With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still?
الصفحة 310 - So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart ; Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel ; While the same plumage that had warmed his nest Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
الصفحة 20 - And hark ! the wind-god, as he flies, Moans hollow in the forest trees, And sailing on the gusty breeze, Mysterious music dies. Sweet flower ! that requiem wild is mine, It warns me to the lonely shrine, The cold turf altar of the dead ; My grave shall be in yon lone spot, Where as I lie, by all forgot, g A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.
الصفحة 19 - I'll weave a melancholy song: And sweet the strain shall be and long, The melody of death. Come, funeral flower ! who lov'st to dwell With the pale corse in lonely tomb, And throw across the desert gloom A sweet decaying smell.

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