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Página 288 - Pope. Friend to my life, (which did not you prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song) What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?
Página 128 - My beloved spake, and said unto me, rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away ; for lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone : the flowers appear on the earth ; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land. The fig-tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.
Página 80 - I have found out a gift for my fair; I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me that plunder forbear, She will say 'twas a barbarous deed...
Página 81 - When forced the fair nymph to forego. What anguish I felt at my heart: Yet I thought — but it might not be so — Twas with pain that she saw me depart. She gazed as I slowly withdrew, My path I could hardly discern; So sweetly she bade me adieu, I thought that she bade me return.
Página 66 - And now, my race of terror run, Mine be the eve of tropic Sun ! No pale gradations quench his ray, No twilight dews his wrath allay ; With disk like battle-target red, He rushes to his burning bed, Dyes the wide wave with bloody light, Then sinks at once — and all is night.
Página 88 - Holland fleet, who, tired and done, Stretch'd on their decks like weary oxen lie : Faint sweats all down their mighty members run ; Vast bulks which little souls but ill supply. In dreams they fearful precipices tread : Or, shipwreck'd, labour to some distant shore : Or in dark churches walk among the dead ; They wake with horror, and dare sleep no more.
Página 55 - I'll place the lily there; The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air, And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. The hawthorn I will pu', wi...
Página 196 - E'en then a wish (I mind its power) A wish, that to my latest hour Shall strongly heave my breast ; That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, Some usefu' plan, or book could make, Or sing a sang at least.
Página 408 - Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings? Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat? Loves of his own and raptures swell the note.