The remains of Henry Kirke White [ed.] with an acount of his life by R. Southey, المجلد 1

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الصفحة 310 - WHITE !t while life was in its spring, And thy young Muse just waved her joyous wing. The spoiler came ; and all thy promise fair, Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, When Science...
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 178 - We know on whom we have believed ; and we are persuaded that he is able to keep that which we have committed unto him against the great day.
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 310 - Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low: So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that...
الصفحة 310 - So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart; Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel ; While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
الصفحة 356 - tis but as an hour since they, Who now are in their graves, Kept up the Whitsun dance. And that another hour, and they must fall Like those who went before, and sleep as still Beneath the silent sod, A cold and cheerless sleep.
الصفحة 341 - I will creep into her breast ; Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin, And feed on the vital fire within. Lover, do not trust her eyes, — • When they sparkle most she dies ! Mother, do not trust her breath, — Comfort she will breathe in death ! Father, do not strive to save her, — She is mine, and I must have her ! The coffin must be her...
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...
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.

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