Poems on Various Subjects, Volume 63

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Page 31 - Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, — The seasons...
Page 57 - What might this be? A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes and beckoning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.
Page 57 - And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses. These thoughts may startle well, but not astound The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended By a strong siding champion, Conscience.
Page 43 - still small voice" of sacred sympathy, In vain the mourner's sorrows would beguile, Or steal from weary woe one languid smile ; Yet what they can they do, — the scanty store, So often...
Page 257 - The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly glow, And softer flame ; But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stain'd his name ! Reader, attend ! whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, In low pursuit ; Know, prudent, cautious, self-control Is wisdom's root.
Page 409 - But I will hope to see him yet, in Scotland's bonny bounds; But I will hope to see him yet, in Scotland's bonny bounds. His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds, While wide, through all our Highland hills, his warlike name resounds.
Page 43 - No time can e'er her banished joys restore, For ah ! a heart once broken heals no more. The dewy beams that gleam from pity's eye, The
Page 309 - How blest those olive plants that grow Beneath the altar's sacred shade, Where streams of fresh instruction flow, And Comfort's humble board is spread. 'Twas thus the swallow rear'd her young, Secure within the house of God, Of whom the royal prophet sung, When banish'd from that blest abode.
Page 17 - The sprightly lark's shrill matin wakes the morn. Grief's sharpest thorn hard pressing on my breast, 1 strive, with wakeful melody, to cheer The sullen gloom, sweet Philomel ! like thee, And call the stars to listen : every star Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay.
Page 409 - The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly ; The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye. The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly; And for his king and country dear with pleasure he would die...

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