Prolusiones poeticæ; or, A selection of poetical exercises, in Greek, Latin, and English: partly original, and partly translated [ed. by T. Bancroft.].
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Page 30 - Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge, And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deafening clamour in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly, death itself awakes...
Page 34 - This many summers in a sea of glory ; But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride At length broke under me ; and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Page 28 - O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness...
Page 34 - Is that poor man, that hangs on princes' favours ! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have ; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, }Never to hope again.
Page 30 - With deaf'ning clamours in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly, death itself awakes ? Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude; And, in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king ? Then, happy low, lie down ! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
Page 28 - And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody?
Page 36 - The Dying Christian to his Soul: Ode Vital spark of heav'nly flame! Quit, oh quit this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying. Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life. Hark! they whisper; Angels say. Sister spirit, come away.
Page 60 - How should I love the pretty creatures, While round my knees they fondly clung ; To see them look their mother's features, To hear them lisp their mother's tongue. And when with envy, time transported, Shall think to rob us of our joys, You'll in your girls again be courted, And I'll go wooing in my boys.
Page 64 - Oppression forced me from my cot, My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
Page 64 - Oh take me to your hospitable dome ! Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold ! Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, For I am poor, and miserably old.