Sketches and TalesSampson Low, Marston, & Company, 1883 - 227 pagine |
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abundance admired ancient appearance Bacup Barrel Organ beauty began Brandwood breast Burns butler chapel character Chatterton church circumstances Cliviger Clough Colin cotton Craigie Lee Crawshawbooth Cribden Deer district Dyke Edwin Waugh Factory Doffers father favourite feet fire Forest of Rossendale frae genius Goldsmith Greave hand heart hill human humour i'th imagination inhabitants Irwell Jack o'th labour lads Lancashire land lasses latter Layrocks length looking marvellous boy Mary master midst millstone grit mind Moor moorland morning Musbury nature never night noble Nook o'er Old John OLIVER GOLDSMITH pieces poem poet poor possessed Preesall present pride remarkable rising River Irwell road rock Rossendale valley round sailor scarcely side Sir Gilbert sketch song soul sweet Tannahill Tannahill's thee THOMAS CHATTERTON Thou bonnie wood toil Tom Jenkins village wandering whole wild wood of Craigie writings youth
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Pagina 114 - Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state, With daring aims irregularly great ; Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human kind pass by...
Pagina 125 - In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs, — and God has given my share, — I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose.
Pagina 127 - And steady loyalty and faithful love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, To catch the heart or strike for honest fame; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first and keep'st me so; Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Pagina 97 - No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear ; While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart...
Pagina 126 - I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose. I still had hopes— for pride attends us still — Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell, of all I felt, and all I saw...
Pagina 111 - Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still : Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, Pleas'd with each good that Heaven to man supplies : Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find Some spot to real happiness consign'd, Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, May gather bliss to see my fellows blest.
Pagina 110 - E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; And placed on high, above the storm's career, Look downward where a hundred realms appear ; Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. When thus creation's charms around combine, Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine? Say, should the philosophic mind disdain That good which makes each humbler bosom vain .' Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, These...
Pagina 113 - Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please, How often have I led thy sportive choir, With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire?
Pagina 25 - Hark ! the raven flaps his wing In the briered dell below ; Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares as they go : My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
Pagina 124 - The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade For talking age and whispering lovers made! How often have I blest the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labor free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree...