The Poetical Works of William Collins

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G. Bell & Sons, 1894 - 102 pagine
 

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Pagina 97 - No wither'd witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew; The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew ! The red-breast oft at evening hours Shall kindly lend his little aid, With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers, To deck the ground where thou art laid.
Pagina 66 - Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round ; Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound : And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
Pagina 63 - Echo still, through all the song : And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair.
Pagina 68 - IN yonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave; The year's best sweets shall duteous rise To deck its poet's sylvan grave. In yon deep bed of whispering reeds His airy harp shall now be laid, That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds, May love through life the soothing shade.
Pagina 65 - When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call to faun and dryad known!
Pagina 62 - When Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Thronged around her magic cell...
Pagina 63 - Madness ruled the hour) Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewildered laid, And back recoiled, he knew not why, E'en at the sound himself had made.
Pagina 64 - And, ever and anon, he beat The doubling drum, with furious heat ; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity, at his side, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.
Pagina 29 - O thou, whose spirit most possest The sacred seat of Shakspeare's breast ! By all that from thy prophet broke, In thy divine emotions spoke ! Hither again thy fury deal, Teach me but once like him to feel : His cypress wreath my meed decree, And I, O Fear, will dwell with thee ! ODE TO SIMPLICITY.
Pagina 64 - He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, And, with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe.

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