Cowper, Illustrated by a Series of Views: In, Or Near, the Park of Weston-Underwood, Bucks. Accompanied with Copious Descriptions and a Brief Sketch of the Poet's LifeVernor and Hood, 1803 - 51 |
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Cowper: Illustrated by a Series of Views, in Or Near, the Park of Weston ... Podgląd niedostępny - 2015 |
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Popularne fragmenty
Strona 17 - Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary! For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet, gently prest, press gently mine, My Mary!
Strona 7 - The calm retreat, the silent shade, With prayer and praise agree ; And seem by thy sweet bounty made For those who follow thee.
Strona 19 - And watched a poet through misfortune's vale. Her spotless dust, angelic guards defend ! It is the dust of Unwin, Cowper's friend ! That single title in itself is fame, For all who read his verse revere her name.
Strona 31 - No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar ; paler some, And of a wannish...
Strona 16 - Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary ! For, could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see ? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary ! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign ; Yet gently prest, press gently mine, My Mary!
Strona 25 - How oft upon yon eminence our pace Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, While Admiration, feeding at the eye, And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene...
Strona 10 - I kept him for his humour's sake. For he would oft beguile My heart of thoughts, that made it ache, And force me to a smile.
Strona 7 - Oh, with what joy, and peace, and love, She communes with her God ! There, like the nightingale, she pours Her solitary lays, Nor asks a witness to her song, Nor thirsts for human praise.