The Cat-fight: A Mock Heroic Poem. Supported with Copious Extracts from Ancient and Modern Classic Authors ...

الغلاف الأمامي
1824 - 276 من الصفحات
 

ما يقوله الناس - كتابة مراجعة

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الصفحة 274 - Then maids and youths shall linger here, And while its sounds at distance swell, Shall sadly seem in pity's ear To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore, When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar, To bid his gentle spirit rest...
الصفحة 134 - Here shift the scene, to represent How those I love my death lament. Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay A week, and Arbuthnot a day. St. John himself will scarce forbear To bite his pen, and drop a tear. The rest will give a shrug, and cry, "I'm sorry— but we all must die!
الصفحة 162 - Shoots far into the bosom of dim Night, A glimmering dawn : here Nature first begins Her farthest verge, and Chaos to retire...
الصفحة 88 - By four cherubic shapes ; four faces each Had wondrous ; as with stars, their bodies all, And wings, were set with eyes; with eyes the wheels Of beryl, and careering fires between...
الصفحة 83 - Yet soon he heal'd ; for Spirits, that live throughout Vital in every part, not as frail Man In entrails, heart or head, liver or reins, Cannot but by annihilating die; Nor in their liquid texture mortal wound Receive, no more than can the fluid air...
الصفحة 82 - Was given him temper'd so, that neither keen Nor solid might resist that edge : it met The sword of Satan, with steep force to smite Descending, and in half cut sheer...
الصفحة 90 - Among them he arriv'd ; in his right hand Grasping ten thousand thunders, which he sent Before him, such as in their souls infix'd Plagues...
الصفحة 132 - Now the departing prayer is read: He hardly breathes. The Dean is dead. Before the passing-bell begun, The news through half the town has run. O, may we all for Death prepare! What has he left? And who's his heir?
الصفحة 274 - In yonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave ; The year's best sweets shall duteous rise To deck its poet's sylvan grave.
الصفحة 133 - Lady Suffolk, in the spleen, Runs laughing up to tell the queen. The queen, so gracious, mild, and good, Cries, " Is he gone ? 'tis time he should.

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