The muses' bower, embellished with the beauties of English poetry, Tom 2

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Strona 94 - And now, lash'd on by destiny severe, With horror fraught, the dreadful scene drew near! The ship hangs hovering on the verge of death, Hell yawns, rocks rise, and breakers roar beneath!— In vain, alas! the sacred shades of yore Would arm the mind with philosophic lore; In vain they'd teach us, at the latest breath, To smile serene amid the pangs of death.
Strona 243 - Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat ? Yet, yet I love! — From Abelard it came, And Eloisa yet must kiss the name. Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd : 10 Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where mix'd with God's, his lov'd Idea lies : O write it not my hand — the name appears Already written — wash it out, my tears!
Strona 245 - Some emanation of th' all-beauteous Mind. Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry ray, Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day. Guiltless I gaz'd ; Heav'n listen'd while you sung ; And truths divine came mended from that tongue. From lips like those what precept fail'd to move ? Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love : Back thro' the paths of pleasing sense I ran, Nor wish'd an Angel whom I lov'da Man.
Strona 183 - Oh ! let him alone, For making a blunder, or picking a bone. But hang it - to poets who seldom can eat, Your very good mutton's a very good treat; Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt, It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.
Strona 244 - Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys. Relentless walls ! whose darksome round contains Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains : Ye rugged rocks, which holy knees have worn ; Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn...
Strona 248 - Not on the cross my eyes were fix'd, but you : Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call, And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.
Strona 256 - Thou, Abelard ! the last sad office pay, And smooth my passage to the realms of day ; See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll, Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul ! Ah no — in sacred vestments may'st thou stand, The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand, Present the Cross before my lifted eye, Teach me at once, and learn of me to die.
Strona 58 - The warbling birds exalt their evening lay : Blithe skipping o'er yon hill, the fleecy train Join the deep chorus of the lowing plain ; The golden lime, and orange, there were seen . On fragrant branches of perpetual green ; The crystal streams that velvet meadows lave, To the green Ocean roll with chiding wave. . The glassy Ocean hushed forgets to roar, But trembling murmurs on the sandy shore...
Strona 245 - No happier task these faded eyes pursue; To read and weep is all they now can do. Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief; Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grief.
Strona 224 - What is true passion, if unblest it dies ? And where is Emma's joy, if Henry flies ? If love, alas! be pain; the pain I bear No thought can figure, and no tongue declare.

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