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Page 414 - It was on the day, or rather night, of the 27th of June 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last lines of the last page, in a summer-house in my garden. After laying down my pen, I took several turns in a berceau, or covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflected from the waters, and all nature was silent.
Page 207 - I wis all their sport in the park is but a shadow to that pleasure that I find in Plato. Alas, good folk, they never felt what true pleasure meant.
Page 244 - SLEEP on, and dream of Heaven awhile — Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes, Thy rosy lips still wear a smile And move, and breathe delicious sighs ! Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks And mantle o'er her neck of snow ; Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks What most I wish — and fear to know ! She starts, she trembles, and she weeps ! Her fair hands folded on her breast : — And now, how like a saint she sleeps ! A seraph in the realms of rest ! Sleep on secure ! Above...
Page 77 - SWEET MEMORY, wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail, To view the fairy-haunts of long-lost hours, Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers.
Page 21 - If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky ; If but a beam of sober Reason play, Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away...
Page 190 - Then before All they stand — the holy vow And ring of gold, no fond illusions now, Bind her as his. Across the threshold led, And every tear kissed off as soon as shed, His house she enters — there to be a light, Shining within, when all without is night ; A guardian-angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing...
Page 207 - ... an inward prompting which now grew daily upon me, that by labour and intent study, which I take to be my portion in- this life, joined with the strong propensity of nature, I might perhaps leave something so written to after-times, as they should not willingly let it die.
Page 319 - Orsini lived ; and long might'st thou have seen An old man wandering as in quest of something, Something he could not find — he knew not what.