The remains of Henry Kirke White [ed.] with an acount of his life by R. Southey, Volume 1

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Página 20 - I'll weave a melancholy song, And sweet the strain shall be, and long The melody of death. Come funeral flower ! who lov'st to dwell With the pale corse in lonely tomb, And throw across the desert gloom A sweet, decaying smell — Come, press my lips and lie with me Beneath the lowly alder tree : And we will sleep a pleasant sleep And not a care shall dare intrude, To break the marble solitude, So peaceful and so deep.
Página 178 - We know whom we have believed, and are persuaded that he is able to keep that which we have committed unto him against that day.
Página 310 - Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the' pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents, which weuld have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume.
Página 2 - When he was about seven, he would creep unp'erceived into the kitchen, to teach the servant to read and write; and he continued this for some time before it was discovered that he had been tb/us laudably employed.
Página 37 - Then since this world is vain, And volatile, and fleet, Why should I lay up earthly joys, Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, And cares and sorrows eat ? 'Why fly from ill With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still?
Página 310 - So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart ; Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel ; While the same plumage that had warmed his nest Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.
Página 75 - Tired of earth And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft Through fields of air, pursues the flying storm, Rides on the vollied lightning through the heavens ; Or, yoked with whirlwinds, and the northern blast, Sweeps the long tract of day.
Página 323 - In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls, The village matron kept her little school, Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule; Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien; Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean; Her neatly...
Página 74 - Nor undelightful is the solemn noon Of night, when haply wakeful from my couch I start : lo, all is motionless around ! Roars not the rushing wind ; the sons of men And every beast in mute oblivion lie ; All nature's hush'd in silence and in sleep. O then how fearful is it to reflect, That through the still globe's awful solitude, No being wakes but me ! till stealing sleep My drooping temples bathes in opiate dews.
Página 352 - The winter is cold, and I have no vest, And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast ; No father, no mother, no kindred have I, For I am a parentless Wandering Boy.

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