The Poetical Works of John Milton

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H. Milford, Oxford University Press, 1900 - 554 من الصفحات

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الصفحة 256 - When first on this delightful land he spreads His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth After soft showers; and sweet the coming on Of grateful evening" mild; then silent night With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, And these the gems of heaven, her starry train...
الصفحة 40 - Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow, His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. "Ah; Who hath reft" (quoth he) "my dearest pledge?
الصفحة 177 - A dungeon horrible on all sides round, As one great furnace flam'd ; yet from those flames No light ; but rather darkness visible Serv'd only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell ; hope never comes, That comes to all ; but torture without end Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed...
الصفحة 42 - Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, Where other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 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 42 - Weep no more, woeful shepherds weep no more, For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor; So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore 170 Flames in the forehead of the morning sky...
الصفحة 41 - Lycid lies. 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'er thy bones are hurl'd, Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ; Or whether thou to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus...
الصفحة 39 - 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.
الصفحة 182 - Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views At evening from the top of Fesole, Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands, Rivers, or mountains in her spotty globe. His spear, to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast Of some great ammiral, were but a wand...
الصفحة 270 - These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almighty ! thine this universal frame, Thus wondrous fair: thyself how wondrous then, Unspeakable ! who sitt'st above these heavens To us invisible, or dimly seen In these thy lowest works; yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
الصفحة 61 - How charming is divine Philosophy! Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, But musical as is Apollo's lute, And a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets, Where no crude surfeit reigns.

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