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Page 37 - In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs - and God has given my share I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose.
Page 104 - 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 41 - To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven...
Page 25 - How small, of all that human hearts endure, That part which laws or kings can cause or cure.
Page 79 - Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale, With hospitable ray. " For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow ; Where wilds immeasurably spread Seem lengthening as I go." " Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom.
Page 37 - tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; No surly porter stands in guilty state, To spurn imploring famine from the gate...
Page 39 - Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow. And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began.
Page 46 - The mournful peasant leads his humble band; And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms — a garden and a grave ! Where, then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride?
Page 80 - No flocks that range the valley free To slaughter I condemn; Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them. "But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. "Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong; Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long.
Page 36 - A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintain'd its man; For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more: His best companions, innocence and health; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.