The minstrel: in two books: with some other poems. To which are now added, Miscellanies, by J.H. Beattie

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Page 73 - In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire: The birds in vain their amorous descant join, Or cheerful fields resume their green attire. These ears, alas! for other notes repine; A different object do these eyes require...
Page 148 - Whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison...
Page 108 - Plac'd far amid the melancholy main, (Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles ; Or that aerial beings sometimes deign To stand embodied, to our senses plain) Sees on the naked hill, or valley low, The whilst in ocean Phcebus dips his wain., " A vast assembly moving to and fro ; Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.
Page 75 - Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing Spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; But shepherd lads assemble here, And melting virgins own their love. No wither'd witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew; The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew...
Page 79 - Let Vanity adorn the marble tomb . With trophies, rhymes, and scutcheons of renown, In the deep dungeon of some gothic dome, Where night and desolation ever frown. Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down ; Where a green grassy turf is all I crave, With here and there a violet bestrewn, Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave ; And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.
Page 73 - And in my breast the imperfect joys expire; Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, And new-born pleasure brings to happier men; The fields to all their wonted tribute bear; To warm their little loves the birds complain. I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, And weep the more because I weep in vain.
Page 130 - Now my weary lips I close: Leave me, leave me to repose.
Page 81 - THE smiling morn, the breathing spring, Invite the tuneful birds to sing ; And while they warble from each spray, Love melts the universal lay. Let us, Amanda, timely wise, Like them improve the hour that flies; And in soft raptures waste the day Among the shades of Invermay.
Page 77 - Or midst the chase, on every plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell. Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed ; Beloved till life can charm no more; And mourned till Pity's self be dead.

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