The English Poets: Selections, Volume 3Thomas Humphry Ward Macmillan, 1909 - English poetry |
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Page 2
... praise were addressed to the not very noble Earl of Oxford . Whether or no Pope really felt as he pretended , he seemed at least to write with ardour , but the style of Addison's panegyrics on King William III is as artificial as the ...
... praise were addressed to the not very noble Earl of Oxford . Whether or no Pope really felt as he pretended , he seemed at least to write with ardour , but the style of Addison's panegyrics on King William III is as artificial as the ...
Page 6
... praise of Pope . The lines of the latter , written in 1709 , are familiar to most readers , but may be quoted here ... praising his very remarkable Defence of the Fair Sex , in which the young poet , in an age given up to selfish ...
... praise of Pope . The lines of the latter , written in 1709 , are familiar to most readers , but may be quoted here ... praising his very remarkable Defence of the Fair Sex , in which the young poet , in an age given up to selfish ...
Page 17
... understand how he could ever have penned this egregious didactic work . Yet he not only wrote it , but he hoped to live by VOL . III . C it , and grew petulant when Pope declined to praise MATTHEW PRIOR (1664-1721) The Secretary.
... understand how he could ever have penned this egregious didactic work . Yet he not only wrote it , but he hoped to live by VOL . III . C it , and grew petulant when Pope declined to praise MATTHEW PRIOR (1664-1721) The Secretary.
Page 18
Selections Thomas Humphry Ward. it , and grew petulant when Pope declined to praise it as a master- piece . ' Indeed , poor Solomon in rhyme Was much too grave to be sublime , ' exclaimed its disappointed author in his last - published ...
Selections Thomas Humphry Ward. it , and grew petulant when Pope declined to praise it as a master- piece . ' Indeed , poor Solomon in rhyme Was much too grave to be sublime , ' exclaimed its disappointed author in his last - published ...
Page 23
... sing , that I should play . My lyre I tune , my voice I raise ; But with my numbers mix my sighs : And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise , I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes . Fair Chloe blushed : Euphelia frowned : I sung and MATTHEW PRIOR . 23.
... sing , that I should play . My lyre I tune , my voice I raise ; But with my numbers mix my sighs : And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise , I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes . Fair Chloe blushed : Euphelia frowned : I sung and MATTHEW PRIOR . 23.
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Common terms and phrases
Addison Ambrose Philips beauty beneath blest born breast breath charms couplet court criticism death delight Dryden Dunciad Eclogues English English poetry Epistle Essay Essay on Criticism Ev'n ev'ry eyes fair fame fate fool frae genius GEORGE SAINTSBURY grace Gratius Faliscus grave Gray Grongar Hill hand happy head heart heaven Horace kings knave labour literary live Lord Lord Hervey mind moral muse nature ne'er never night numbers nymph o'er once passion Pindaric pleasure poem poet poet's poetical poetry Pope Pope's pow'r praise pride prose rhyme rise round satire sense shade shine sing smile song soul spirit Spleen sweet Swift taste tear tell thee things THOMAS PARNELL THOMAS TICKELL thou thought thro toil trembling truth turns Twas verse virtue Whig wind wise write youth
Popular passages
Page 263 - Other refuge have I none — Hangs my helpless soul on Thee : Leave, ah ! leave me not alone, Still support and comfort me ! , All my trust on Thee is stay'd, All my help from Thee I bring: Cover my defenceless head With the shadow of thy wing.
Page 607 - TIGER! Tiger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? and what dread feet?
Page 381 - When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds, too late, that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away ? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom, is— to die.
Page 567 - Our toils obscure, and a' that ; The rank is but the guinea stamp ; The man's the gowd for a' that. What tho' on hamely fare we dine, Wear hodden-gray, and a' that ; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man for a' that. For a
Page 332 - For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Page 532 - November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose : The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; Th' expectant...
Page 86 - Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; His soul, proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way...
Page 373 - How often have I blest the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree...
Page 287 - How sleep the brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there!
Page 378 - To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head.