Specimens of the British Poets: Churchill, 1764, to Johnson, 1784Thomas Campbell John Murray, 1819 |
Från bokens innehåll
Resultat 1-5 av 14
Sida 164
... for aie . " Then Canterlone hee dydd goe out , To telle the maior straite To gett all thynges ynne reddyness For goode Syr Charleses fate . Thenne Maisterr Canynge saughte the kynge , And felle down 164 THOMAS CHATTERTON .
... for aie . " Then Canterlone hee dydd goe out , To telle the maior straite To gett all thynges ynne reddyness For goode Syr Charleses fate . Thenne Maisterr Canynge saughte the kynge , And felle down 164 THOMAS CHATTERTON .
Sida 166
... Ynne alle thys mortall state . " Lett mercie rule thyne infante reigne , ' Twylle faste thye crowne fulle sure ... ynne enemies . " " Canynge , awaie ! By Godde ynne heav'n , 166 THOMAS CHATTERTON .
... Ynne alle thys mortall state . " Lett mercie rule thyne infante reigne , ' Twylle faste thye crowne fulle sure ... ynne enemies . " " Canynge , awaie ! By Godde ynne heav'n , 166 THOMAS CHATTERTON .
Sida 167
Thomas Campbell. " Canynge , awaie ! By Godde ynne heav'n , Thatt dydd mee being gyve , I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve . " By Marie , and alle Seinetes ynnë heav'n , Thys sunne shall be hys laste ...
Thomas Campbell. " Canynge , awaie ! By Godde ynne heav'n , Thatt dydd mee being gyve , I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve . " By Marie , and alle Seinetes ynnë heav'n , Thys sunne shall be hys laste ...
Sida 168
... ynne battaile have I stoode , Whan thousands dy'd arounde ; Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde : " Howe dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte , Thatt cutte the airie waie , Myghte nott fynde passage toe my ...
... ynne battaile have I stoode , Whan thousands dy'd arounde ; Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde : " Howe dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte , Thatt cutte the airie waie , Myghte nott fynde passage toe my ...
Sida 169
... Ynne Londonne citye was I borne , Of parents of grete note ; My fadre dydd a nobile armes Emblazon onne hys cote : “ I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone Where soone I hope to goe ; Where wee for ever shall bee blest , From oute the reech ...
... Ynne Londonne citye was I borne , Of parents of grete note ; My fadre dydd a nobile armes Emblazon onne hys cote : “ I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone Where soone I hope to goe ; Where wee for ever shall bee blest , From oute the reech ...
Vanliga ord och fraser
ANTISTROPHE beauty behold beneath blest bliss bloom BORN bosom brave breast breath charms dear death delight dreadful dydd e'er earth eternal Eulogius ev'ry fair fame fancy fate fear form'd frae FRANCIS FAWKES genius GEORGE ALEXANDER STEVENS grief hand hear heart Heaven honour hour JAMES GRAINGER kynge labour Lord mild ale mind MONODY mournful nature nature's night Night Thoughts numbers o'er pain pale Palemon passions PAUL WHITEHEAD peace plain pleasure poem poet poetical poetry poor pow'r praise pride rage reign RICHARD JAGO rise Rodmond round scene Selim shade shore skies sleep smile soft song soul spread swain sweet Syr Charles taste taught tears tender Thatt thee Thenne thine THOMAS CHATTERTON thou thought toil train trembling university of Edinburgh vale verse virtue wave wealth wild wings wretch wyfe wylle Wyth ynne youth
Populära avsnitt
Sida 280 - In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs - and God has given my share I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose.
Sida 281 - The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school ; The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
Sida 278 - Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled and all thy charms withdrawn; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green: One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain: 40 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way.
Sida 286 - Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land.
Sida 285 - Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These simple blessings of the lowly train, To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art : Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.
Sida 189 - Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare ; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
Sida 288 - And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel and robes of country brown.
Sida 284 - A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew : Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face ; Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; Full well the busy whisper circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.
Sida 282 - His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid...
Sida 186 - On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood ; (Loose his beard and hoary hair, Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air,) And with a master's hand and prophet's fire Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre...