The works of the poets of Great Britain and Ireland. With prefaces, biographical and critical, by S. Johnson, Volume 2

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Pagina 195 - And they said, Go to, let us build us a city, and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven ; and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.
Pagina 141 - Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear Compels me to disturb your season due; For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
Pagina 24 - The birds their quire apply; airs, vernal airs, Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune The trembling leaves while universal Pan Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance Led on the eternal spring...
Pagina 142 - Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor ; So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky...
Pagina 140 - And when the Sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown that Sylvan loves Of Pine, or monumental Oak, Where the rude Axe with heaved stroke, Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
Pagina 156 - Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope ; but still bear up and steer Right onward.
Pagina 11 - O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp, Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death, A universe of death...
Pagina 152 - But now my task is smoothly done, I can fly, or I can run, Quickly to the green earth's end, Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend, And from thence can soar as soon To the corners of the moon.
Pagina 141 - For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns appeared Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn...

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