The Miscellaneous Works, in Prose and Verse, of Mrs. Elizabeth Rowe, Volym 2

Henry Lintot, 1756

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Sida 129 - And love and mildnefs fhone ferene : Once foft perfuafion tun'd her tongue, As truth fincere, and fweet as fong : Once this cold hand could touch the lyre, And ev'ry tender thought infpire : Now finking to its parent clay...
Sida 243 - And earlier far than thine the destin'd hour of fate! Whene'er it comes, may'st thou be by, Support my sinking frame, and teach me how to die, Banish desponding nature's gloom, Make me to hope a gentle doom, And fix me all on joys to come ! With...
Sida 231 - To virtuous themes, her well tun'd lyre she strung; Of virtuous themes in easy numbers sung. Horace and Pompey in her line appear, } With all the worth that Rome did once revere: } Much to Corneille they owe, and much to her. } Her thoughts, her numbers, and her fire the same, She soar'd as high, and equal'd all his fame. Tho' France adores the bard, nor envies Greece The costly buskins of her Sophocles. More we expected, but untimely death, Soon stopt her rising glories with her breath.
Sida 130 - The weeping friend, th' expecting ground, The filent horror all around, Have tempted Sorrow from her cave, And now me hovers o'er the grave ; Now finks our hearts, impearls our eyes, And bids a gen'ral groan arife ; Exclaims that man was doom'd to mourn, And fits in pomp to guard the urn.
Sida 127 - And yet no notices yy give Nor tell us where, nor how yy live ; Tho' conscious whilst with us below, How much...
Sida 131 - That joki'd our hearts, defcend to keep My deareft charge ; to watch thy fleep, Hint fofter dreams ; to chafe away Black error's mift, and bright difplay The form of virtue to thy fight...
Sida 167 - Hark ! they whifper ; Angels fay, Sifter Spirit, come away ! What is this abforbs me quite, Steals my fenfes, fhuts my fight, Drowns my fpirits, draws my breath ? Tell me, my foul, can this be Death?
Sida 130 - Once this cold hand could touch the lyre, And ev'ry tender thought infpire : Now finking to its parent clay, All chang'd, the body feems to fay, Thus life, a fimdovv, fleets away I O WHISO WHISPER (till, thou voice divine ! Thine be the lore, attention mine.
Sida 132 - High rais'd on Virtue's eagle wing, The Patriots aft, the Poets fing ; With purer fires the Lovers glow, Than youth or fenfe infpire below. Here join we then the kindred race, That fprings to meet our fpft embrace ; Or in fome fweet fequefter'd grove Mix flame with flame, and love with love.

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