Oxford, a poem. (Poetical works of R. Montgomery).

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Strona 185 - But wild beasts of the desert shall lie there; and their houses shall be full of doleful creatures; and owls shall dwell there, and satyrs shall dance there.
Strona 193 - The first sense of sorrow I ever knew was upon the death of my father, at which time I was not quite five years of age ; but was rather amazed at what all the house meant, than possessed with a real understanding why nobody was willing to play with me.
Strona 222 - Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears ; To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Strona 185 - Oxford with a stock of erudition that might have puzzled a doctor, and a degree of ignorance of which a school-boy would have been ashamed.
Strona 217 - d by ev'ry quill ; Fed with soft dedication all day long, Horace and he went hand in hand in song.
Strona 220 - In men we various ruling passions find ; In women two almost divide the kind ; Those only fix'd, they first or last obey, The love of pleasure, and the love of sway.
Strona 229 - The bookful blockhead ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head, With his own tongue still edifies his ears, And always listening to himself appears. All books he reads, and all he reads assails, From Dryden's Fables down to Durfey's Tales. With him most authors steal their works, or buy ; Garth did not write his own Dispensary.
Strona 220 - ... a rib Crooked by nature, bent, as now appears, More to the part sinister, from me drawn ; Well if thrown out, as supernumerary To my just number found. O ! why did God, Creator wise, that peopled highest heaven With spirits masculine, create at last This novelty on earth, this fair defect Of nature, and not fill the world at once With men, as angels, without feminine ; Or find some other way to generate Mankind?
Strona 240 - Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights, How oft unwearied have we spent the nights, Till the Ledaean stars, so famed for love, Wonder'd at us from above! We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine ; But search of deep Philosophy, Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry, Arts which I loved, for they, my friend, were thine.
Strona 193 - A poet, while living, is seldom an object sufficiently great to attract much attention ; his real merits are known but to a few, and these are generally sparing in their praises. When his fame is increased by time, it is then too late to investigate the peculiarities of his disposition ; the dews of morning are past, and we vainly try to continue the chase by the meridian splendor.

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