The poetical works of ... E. Young. With the life of the author. Cooke's ed, Том 1

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Страница 43 - The chamber where the good man meets his fate, Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heav'n.
Страница 25 - tis madness to defer ; Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life. Procrastination is the thief of time ; Year after year it steals, till all are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
Страница 15 - From short (as usual) and disturb'd repose I wake : how happy they who wake no more ! Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave.
Страница 197 - All the black cares and tumults of this life, Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet, Excite his pity, not impair his peace.
Страница 57 - While reason and religion, better taught, Congratulate the dead, and crown his tomb With wreath triumphant.
Страница 62 - From darkness, teeming darkness, where I lay The worm's inferior, and, in rank, beneath The dust I tread on, high to bear my brow, To drink the spirit of the golden day, And triumph in existence ; and couldst know No motive, but my bliss ; and hast ordain'd A rise in blessing ! with the patriarch's joy...
Страница 30 - How heavily we drag the load of life! Blest leisure is our curse; like that of Cain, It makes us wander, wander earth around, To fly that tyrant Thought. As Atlas groan'd The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour.
Страница 25 - How excellent that life they ne'er will lead! Time lodg'd in their own hands is Folly's vails ; That lodg'd in Fate's to wisdom they consign ; The thing they can't but purpose they postpone.
Страница 119 - Enjoy the various riches nature yields ; Far nobler ! give the riches they enjoy ; Give taste to fruits ; and harmony to groves ; Their radiant beams to gold, and gold's bright...
Страница 21 - Here, plung'd in mines, forgets a sun was made. There, beings deathless as their haughty lord, Are hammer'd to the galling oar for life ; And plough the winter's wave, and reap despair. Some, for hard masters, broken under arms, In battle lopt away, with half their limbs, Beg bitter bread thro' realms their valour sav'd, If so the tyrant, or his minion, doom.

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