Poems on Several Subjects

George Pearch, 1769 - 172 sidor

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Sida xlv - Like leaves on trees the race of man is found, Now green in youth, now withering on the ground ; Another race the following spring supplies; They fall successive, and successive rise : So generations in their course decay; So flourish these, when those are pass'd away.
Sida 44 - He bowed the heavens also, and came down : and darkness was under his feet. And he rode upon a cherub, and did fly: yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind.
Sida ci - True f wit i' nature to advantage drefs'd, What oft was thought, but ne'er fo well exprefs'd ; Something, whofe truth convinc'd at fight, we find, That gives us back the image of our mind.
Sida 111 - Nurs'd on the downy lap of ease, Fall prostrate at His throne : Ye princes, rulers, all adore ; Praise Him, ye kings, who makes your power An image of His own. Ye fair, by nature form'd to move, O praise th...
Sida 108 - Join, ye loud spheres, the vocal choir ; Thou dazzling orb of liquid fire, The mighty chorus aid : Soon as grey ev'ning gilds the plain, Thou, moon, protract the melting strain.
Sida 110 - To him, ye graceful cedars, bow; Ye towering mountains, bending low, Your great Creator own! Tell, when affrighted nature shook, How Sinai kindled at his look, And trembled at his frown. Ye flocks that haunt the humble vale, Ye insects fluttering on the gale.
Sida 108 - Ye fields of light, celestial plains, Where gay transporting beauty reigns, Ye scenes divinely fair ; Your Maker's wondrous power proclaim, Tell how he form'd your shining frame, And breath'd the fluid air. Ye angels, catch the thrilling sound ; While all th...
Sida xl - And with the blast of thy nostrils the waters were gathered together, The floods stood upright as an heap, And the depths were congealed in the heart of the sea.
Sida cxii - But wrapt in error is the human mind, And human bliss is ever insecure : Know we what fortune yet remains behind ? Know we how long the present shall endure ? WIST.
Sida vii - Tis with our judgments as our watches, none Go just alike, yet each believes his own. In poets as true genius...

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