The Complete Works of Henry Kirke White: With an Account of His Life

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J. H. A. Frost, 1829 - English poetry - 420 pages

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Page 346 - He bowed the heavens also, and came down : and darkness was under His feet. And He rode upon a cherub, and did fly : yea, He did fly upon the wings of the wind.
Page 126 - Go, lovely Rose ! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.
Page 124 - Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks, From every host, from every gem ; But one alone the Saviour speaks, It is the star of Bethlehem.
Page 196 - Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low. So the struck eagle...
Page 123 - LORD, another day is flown, And we, a lonely band, Are met once more before thy throne, To bless thy fostering hand. And wilt thou bend a listening ear, To praises low as ours ? Thou wilt ! for thou dost love to hear The song which meekness pours.
Page 353 - Tis she ! — but why that bleeding bosom gor'd ' Why dimly gleams the visionary sword ? Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly ! tell, Is it in heaven a crime to love too well ? To bear too tender or too firm a heart, To act a Lover's or a Roman's part ? Is there no bright reversion in the sky For those...
Page 282 - We know whom we have believed, and are persuaded that he is able to keep that which we have committed unto him against that day.
Page 80 - twill well contain The ideal flights of Madam Brain. No dungeon's walls, no cell confined, Can cramp the energies of mind ! I've friends, and 'twill contain them all ; And should it e'er become so cold That these it will no longer hold, No more may Heaven her blessings give, I shall not then be fit to live. TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.
Page 128 - IT is not that my lot is low, That bids this silent tear to flow ; It is not grief that bids me moan, It is that I am all alone. In woods and glens I love to roam, When the tired hedger hies him home, Or by the woodland pool to rest, When pale the star looks on its breast. Yet when the silent evening sighs, With hallowed airs and symphonies, My spirit takes another tone, And sighs that it is all alone.
Page 352 - Graces breathe, And happiest art adorn his Attic page; Yet does my mind with sweeter transport glow, As at the root of mossy trunk reclin'd, In magic SPENSER'S wildly-warbled song I see deserted Una wander wide Thro...

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