The Works of the English Poets: With Prefaces, Biographical and Critical, Volume 51,Página 2

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Página 38 - The chamber where the good man meets his fate, Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.
Página 3 - We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours : Where are they ? With the years beyond the flood.
Página 30 - Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours ; And ask them, what report they bore to heaven ; And how they might have borne more welcome news.
Página 144 - Its tenure sure ; its income is divine. High-built abundance, heap on heap ! for what ? To breed new wants, and beggar us the more ; Then, make a richer scramble for the throng...
Página 247 - All the black cares and tumults of this life, Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet, Excite his pity, not impair his peace.
Página 60 - Death's tremendous blow. The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave; The deep damp vault, the darkness, and the worm ; These are the bugbears of a winter's eve, The terrors of the living, not the dead. Imagination's fool, and Error's wretch, Man makes a death which Nature never made : Then on the point of his own fancy falls, And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.
Página 3 - The bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss : to give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke 1 feel the solemn sound.
Página 2 - Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no more. Silence and Darkness! solemn sisters! twins From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought To reason, and on reason build resolve...
Página 50 - Our dying friends come o'er us like a cloud, To damp our brainless ardours, and abate That glare of life which often blinds the wise. Our dying friends are pioneers, to smooth...
Página 78 - Though yet unsung, as deem'd, perhaps, too bold ? Angels are men of a superior kind ; Angels are men in lighter habit clad, High o'er celestial mountains wing'd in flight ; And men are angels, loaded for an hour, Who wade this miry vale, and climb with pain, And slippery step, the bottom of the steep.

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