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angel ANNE KILLIGREW antistrophe arms Bacchus beneath blessed bliss Boileau bower brave breath bright CHORUS clouds Cowley crown curious fools dark death deep delight divine dost doth dreadful dreams e'er ears earth echo ring epode eternal eyes fair fair music fame fate fear fire flowers foes France Gilbert West glory golden goodly grace hand happy harmony hast hath hear heard heart heaven heavenly holy honour Hyades Hymen kings leave les monceaux light loud lovely band lyre maid melodious mighty mortal mourn Muse Namur ne'er night numbers nymphs o'er Pindar pleasure poem poet praise round sacred Sambre sighed and looked sing skies sleep soft solemn song soul sound spirit star strophe sung sweet tears thee thine things thou thought throne Timotheus unto vermil verse voice waves winds wings woods may answer woods them answer
Pagina 22 - Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too...
Pagina 67 - Now strike the golden lyre again ; A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. Break his bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark, hark, the horrid sound Has raised up his head ; As awaked from the dead, And amazed, he stares around. Revenge, revenge...
Pagina 189 - We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Pagina 23 - But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies ; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
Pagina 105 - On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood. Robed in the sable garb of woe. With haggard eyes the poet stood; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air), And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.
Pagina 211 - My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: "Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness, — That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
Pagina 24 - This is the month, and this the happy morn Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring...
Pagina 212 - Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan...
Pagina 69 - At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame ; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown ; He raised a mortal to the skies, She drew an angel down.