Poems, Tom 1

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Stereotyped and printed by Andrew Wilson for J. Johnson, 1808
 

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Strona 325 - Stop thief! stop thief! — a highwayman ! Not one of them was mute ; And all and each that pass'd that way Did join in the pursuit. And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space; The toll-men thinking as before, That Gilpin rode a race.
Strona 319 - He grasped the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might. His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more.
Strona 227 - Ye winds, that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me ? O tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see.
Strona 226 - I AM monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute ; From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Strona 277 - Sighs must fan it, tears must water, Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters iron-hearted, Lolling at your jovial boards ; Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords.
Strona 171 - The scene of all those sorrows left behind, Sought their own village, busied as they went In musings worthy of the great event : They spake of him they loved, of him whose life, Though blameless, had incurr'd perpetual strife, Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts, A deep memorial graven on their hearts.
Strona 319 - John he cried ; But John he cried in vain, That trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein. So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright, He grasp'd the mane with both his hands And eke with all his might.
Strona 278 - Deem our nation brutes no longer, Till some reason ye shall find Worthier of regard, and stronger Than the colour of our kind. Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings Tarnish all your boasted powers, Prove that you have human feelings, Ere you proudly question ours ! PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS.
Strona 122 - He loved the world that hated him : the tear That dropp'd upon his Bible was sincere ; Assail'd by scandal and the tongue of strife, His only answer was a blameless life ; And he that forged, and he that threw the dart, Had each a brother's interest in his heart.
Strona 227 - I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech, I start at the sound of my own. The beasts, that roam over the plain, My form with indifference see ; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me.

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