The Complete Poetical Works of James Thomson

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H. Frowde, Oxford University Press, 1908 - 516 pages
 

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Page 199 - Should fate command me to the farthest verge Of the green earth, to distant, barbarous climes, Rivers unknown to song, — where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on the Atlantic isles, — 'tis nought to me; Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste as in the city full ; And where He vital breathes there must be joy.
Page 230 - I care not, fortune, what you me deny : You cannot rob me of free nature's grace ; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her brightening face : You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns by living stream at eve. Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave : Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.
Page 372 - WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sung this strain: "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves; Britons never will be slaves!
Page 174 - Thy flowering Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength, Thy sober Autumn fading into age, And pale concluding Winter comes at last, And shuts the scene. Ah, whither now are fled Those dreams of greatness ; those unsolid hopes Of happiness ; those longings after fame ; Those restless cares ; those busy bustling days ; Those gay-spent, festive nights ; those veering thoughts. Lost between good and ill, that shared thy life ; All now are vanished : Virtue sole survives, Immortal, never-failing friend of...
Page 197 - Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound his stupendous praise, whose greater voice Or bids you roar or bids your roarings fall. Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, In mingled clouds to him, whose sun exalts, Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints.
Page 22 - But yonder comes the powerful King of Day, Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud, The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow> Illumed with fluid gold, his near approach Betoken glad.
Page 175 - In starving solitude; while Luxury, In palaces, lay straining her low thought, To form unreal wants: why heaven-born Truth, And Moderation fair, wore the red marks Of Superstition's scourge : why licens'd Pain, That cruel spoiler, that embosom'd foe, Imbitter'd all our bliss.
Page 141 - That solemn sounding bids the world prepare. Then issues forth the storm with sudden burst, And hurls the whole precipitated air, Down in a torrent.
Page xxxvii - But who can paint Like Nature ? Can imagination boast, Amid its gay creation, hues like hers ? Or can it mix them with that matchless skill, And lose them in each other, as appears In every bud that blows...
Page 198 - The thunder rolls : be hush'd the prostrate world ; While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks, Retain the sound : the broad responsive low, Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns ; And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come.

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