The British Poets: Including Translations ...

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C. Whittingham, 1822
 

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第 270 頁 - Stop thief! stop thief! — a highwayman! Not one of them was mute; And all and each that passed 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.
第 195 頁 - I praise the Frenchman,* his remark was shrewd — How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude ! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, Whom I may whisper— solitude is sweet.
第 204 頁 - I would not trust my heart: the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.— But no : what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
第 267 頁 - Inclined to tarry there ! For why? — his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware. So like an arrow swift he flew. Shot by an archer strong; So did he fly — which brings me to The middle of my song.
第 217 頁 - WHEN the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with' an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods, Sage beneath the spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke Full of rage and full of grief.
第 235 頁 - Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary ! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more ; My Mary...
第 203 頁 - Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 1 will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own ; And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief. Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream that thou art she. My mother ! when I learn' d that thou wast dead. Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss...
第 224 頁 - THE poplars are felled; farewell to the shade And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade; The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.
第 64 頁 - Oh, how unlike the complex works of man, Heaven's easy, artless, unencumber'd plan ! No meretricious graces to beguile, No clustering ornaments to clog the pile ; From ostentation as from weakness free, It stands like the cerulean arch we see, Majestic in its own simplicity. Inscribed above the portal, from afar Conspicuous as the brightness of a star, Legible only by the light they give, Stand the soul-quickening words — BELIEVE, AND LIVE.
第 174 頁 - Contrivance intricate, expressed with ease, Where unassisted sight no beauty sees, The shapely limb and lubricated joint, Within the small dimensions of a point, Muscle and nerve miraculously spun, His mighty work who speaks and it is done, The Invisible in things scarce seen revealed,* To whom an atom is an ample field...

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