The remains of Henry Kirke White [ed.] with an acount of his life by R. Southey, Volume 2


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Page 126 - 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. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair.
Page 194 - Who layeth the beams of his chambers in the waters, and maketh the clouds his chariot, and walketh upon the wings of the wind.
Page 192 - THE Lord descended from above, And bowed the heavens most high ; And underneath his feet he cast The darkness of the sky. 2 On cherub and on cherubim, Full royally he rode ; And on the wings of mighty winds Came flying all abroad.
Page 123 - Once on the raging seas I rode, The storm was loud, the night was dark, The ocean yawned, and rudely blowed The wind that tossed my foundering bark.
Page 191 - 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 123 - Deep horror then my vitals froze, Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem ; When suddenly a star arose, It was the Star of Bethlehem. V. It was my guide, my light, my all, It bade my dark forebodings cease ; And through the storm and dangers' thrall, It led me to the port of peace.
Page 122 - WHEN, marshall'd on the nightly plain, The glittering host bestud the sky, One star alone, of all the train, Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 2 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 203 - Thro' wasteful solitudes, and lurid heaths, Weary, forlorn ; than when the fated fair Upon the bosom bright of silver Thames Launches in all the lustre of brocade, Amid the splendours of the laughing Sun. The gay description palls upon the sense. And coldly strikes the mind with feeble bliss.
Page 187 - Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme With self-rewarding toil ; — thus far have sung Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem The lyre, which I in early days have strung ; And now my spirits faint, and I have hung The shell, that solaced me -in saddest hour, On the dark cypress ! and the strings which rung With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, Or when the breeze comes by moan and are heard no more.
Page 52 - Thee, when young spring first questioned winter's sway. And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone, Thy tender elegance.

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