The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton, B. D..

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At the University Press, for W. Hanwell and J. Parker; and F. and C. Rivington, London., 1802
 

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Strona 154 - Man's feeble race what ills await ! . Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of fate ! The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove.
Strona 181 - If chance the radiant sun with farewell sweet Extend his evening beam, the fields revive, The birds their notes renew, and bleating herds Attest their joy, that hill and valley rings.
Strona 101 - At eve within yon studious nook, I ope my brass-embossed book, Portray'd with many a holy deed Of martyrs, crown'd with heavenly meed : Then, as my taper waxes dim, Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn ; And at the close, the gleams behold Of parting wings bedropt with gold.
Strona 59 - Sudden, the sombrous imagery is fled, Which late my visionary rapture fed: Thy powerful hand has broke the Gothic chain, And brought my bosom back to truth again; To truth, by no peculiar...
Strona 36 - he was one of those divine men who, like a chapel in a palace, remain unprofaned, while all the rest is tyranny, corruption, and folly.
Strona 20 - Bound on his maiden thigh the martial blade: Bade him the steel for British freedom draw, And Oxford taught the deeds that Cressy saw...
Strona 7 - Still let the drones of her exhaustless hive On rich pluralities supinely thrive : Still let her senates titled slaves revere, Nor dare to know the patriot from the peer ; No longer charm'd by Virtue's lofty song, Once heard sage Milton's manly tones among, Where Cam, meandering thro' the matted reeds, With loitering wave his groves of laurel feeds.
Strona cxlviii - Forth iffuing, on a fummer's morn, to breathe Among the pleafant villages and farms Adjoin'd, from each thing met conceives delight. The fmell of grain, or tedded grafs, or kine, Or dairy ; each rural fight, each rural found.
Strona 90 - Pour all her splendours on th' empurpled scene ; Yet feels the hoary Hermit truer joys, As from the cliff, that o'er his cavern hangs, He views the piles of fall'n Persepolis In deep arrangement hide the darksome plain.
Strona 70 - Of purple spring, where all the wanton train Of smiles and graces seem to lead the dance In sportive round, while from their hands they show'r Ambrosial blooms and flow'rs, no longer charm ; Tempe, no more I court thy balmy breeze, Adieu, green vales ! ye broider'd meads, adieu ! Beneath yon...

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