Continuation of the Rambler

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Page 134 - The sound must seem an echo to the sense. Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar...
Page 411 - Why am I thus bereav'd thy prime decree ? The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night, Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
Page 92 - Ordain'd by thee ; and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a race To fill the earth, who shall with us extol Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep.
Page 143 - His praise, ye Winds, that from four quarters blow, Breathe soft or loud ; and, wave your tops, ye Pines, With every plant, in sign of worship wave. Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Page 411 - Nor the other light of life continue long, But yield to double darkness nigh at hand : So much I feel my genial spirits droop, My hopes all flat, nature within me seems In all her functions weary of herself ; My race of glory run, and race of shame, And I shall shortly be with them that rest.
Page 411 - Fool ! have divulg'd the secret gift of God To a deceitful woman ? tell me, friends, Am I not sung and proverb'd for a fool In every street ? do they not say, how well Are come upon him his deserts...
Page 231 - Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise : He who defers this work from day to day, Does on a river's bank expecting stay Till the whole stream which stopp'd him should be gone, Which runs, and, as it runs, for ever will run on.
Page 116 - Urania, and fit audience find, though few. But drive far off the barbarous dissonance Of Bacchus and his revellers, the race Of that wild rout that tore the Thracian bard In Rhodope, where woods and rocks had ears To rapture, till the savage clamour drown'd Both harp and voice; nor could the muse defend Her son. So fail not thou, who thee implores; For thou art heavenly, she an empty dream.
Page 383 - Who dares think one thing, and another tell, My heart detests him as the gates of hell.
Page 117 - Adam, well may we labour still to dress This garden, still to tend plant, herb, and flower, Our pleasant task enjoin'd ; but, till more hands Aid us, the work under our labour grows, Luxurious by restraint ; what we by day Lop overgrown, or prune, or prop, or bind, One night or two with wanton growth derides, Tending to wild.

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