The Works of David Mallet, Volume 1

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A. Millar and P. Vaillant, 1759 - English poetry - 247 pages

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Page 4 - Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, Thy pledge and broken oath: And give me back my maiden vow, And give me back my troth.
Page 52 - That softens savages to men : Lo ! Socrates, the sent of Heaven, To whom its moral will was given. Fathers and friends of human kind. They form'd the nations, or refin'd ; With all that mends the head and heart, Enlightening truth, adorning art.
Page 50 - The ftorm of fate, the cloud of years, Till Nature, with thy parting light, Repofes late in. Death's calm night : Fled from the trophy'd roofs of ftate, Abodes of fplendid pain, and hate; Fled from the couch, where, in fweet fleep, Hot Riot would his anguifh fteep, But toffes thro...
Page 15 - For soon the winter of the year, And age, life's winter, will appear ; At this, thy living bloom will fade, As that will strip the verdant shade : Our taste of pleasure then is o'er ; The feather'd songsters love no more ; And when they droop, and we decay, Adieu the birks of Invermay.
Page 21 - As gold in mines lies mix'd with dirt and clay, Now, eagle-wing'd his Heavenward flight he takes, The big stage thunders, and the soul awakes ; Now, low on earth, a kindred reptile creeps, Sad Hamlet quibbles, and the hearer sleeps.
Page 133 - Yield up its prey i that, by his mercy fav'd, That mercy, thy fair life's remaining race, A monument of wonder as of love, 330 May juftify ; to all the fons of men, Thy brethren, ever prefent in their need. Such praife delights him moft — He hears me not. Some fecret anguifh, fome tranfcendent woe, 335 Sits heavy on his heart, and from his eyes, Through the clos'd lids, now rolls in bitter ftream!
Page 6 - That face, alas! no more is fair; Those lips no longer red: Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death, And every charm is fled. The hungry worm my sister is; This winding-sheet I wear: And cold and weary lasts our night, Till that last morn appear.
Page 51 - There plunged amid the shadows brown Imagination lays him down, Attentive, in his airy mood, To every murmur of the wood : The bee in yonder flowery nook, The chidings of the headlong brook, The green leaf shivering in the gale, The warbling hill, the lowing vale, The distant woodman's echoing stroke, The thunder of the falling oak : From thought to thought in vision led, He holds high converse with the dead, Sages or poets.
Page 47 - Tis but by way of fimile — A fquirrel fpend.its little rage, In jumping round a rolling cage ? Mov'd in the orb,' pleas'd with the chimes. The foolifh creature thinks it climbs ; But here. or there, turn wood or wire, It never gets two inches higher.
Page 4 - But love had, like the canker-worm, Confum'd her early prime : The rofe grew pale, and left her cheek ; She dy'd before her time.

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