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appear arms beauty became beneath better blessed born called charms dead dear death delight died divine eyes face fair fall fame father fear feel fire flowers genius give grace green hand head hear heart heaven hills hope hour John kind king land laws leave light lines live London look Lord mind morning Muse nature never night o'er once passed peace poem poet poetry poor praise published rest rise roll rose round scene seen sense Shilling side sing smile song soon soul sound spirit spring strong sweet tears tell thee thing thou thought true turn Twas verse virtue voice waves wife wind write wrote young youth
Page 146 - Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear ; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year...
Page 145 - WEEP ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him: But weep sore for him that goeth away : For he shall return no more, Nor see his native country.
Page 305 - E'en from the grave thou shalt have power to charm. Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee; Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move; And if so fair, from vanity as free, As firm in friendship, and as fond in love, — Tell them...
Page 129 - My master carries me to church, And often am I blamed Because I leave him in the lurch As soon as text is named ; I leave the church in sermon-time And slink away to Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.
Page 305 - Take, holy earth ! all that my soul holds dear: Take that best gift which Heaven so lately gave : To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care Her faded form : she bow'd to taste the wave, And died.
Page 97 - Soft and easy is thy cradle: Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, When His birthplace was a stable And His softest bed was hay.
Page 74 - I'll venture for the vole.) Six deans, they say, must bear the pall, (I wish I knew what king to call.; Madam, your husband will attend The funeral of so good a friend.
Page 169 - Strong is the lion — like a coal His eyeball — like a bastion's mole His chest against the foes: Strong the gier-eagle on his sail, Strong against tide the enormous whale Emerges as he goes.
Page 73 - Here shift the scene, to represent How those I love my death lament. Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay A week, and Arbuthnot a day. St John himself will scarce forbear To bite his pen, and drop a tear. The rest will give a shrug, and cry, ' I 'm sorry — but we all must die!