The Life and Letters of William Cowper, Esq: With Remarks on Epistolary Writers, Volume 4

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J. Johnson and Company, 1812
 

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Page 146 - Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary ! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more ; My Mary...
Page 146 - Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary! For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see ? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet gently prest, press gently mine, My Mary!
Page 230 - The path of sorrow, and that path alone, Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown ; No traveller ever reach'd that blest abode, Who found not thorns and briers in his road.
Page 425 - As in Dodona once thy kindred trees Oracular, I would not curious ask The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, The clock of history, facts and events Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts Recovering, and misstated setting right...
Page 147 - But ah! by constant heed I know How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last — My Mary!
Page 230 - But he, who knew what human hearts would prove, How slow to learn the dictates of his love, That, hard by nature and of stubborn will, A life of ease would make them harder still, In pity to the souls his grace design'd To rescue from the ruins of mankind, Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years, And said, " Go, spend them in the vale of tears.
Page 168 - Adieu!" At length, his transient respite past, His comrades, who before Had heard his voice in every blast, Could catch the sound no more: For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank. No poet wept him: but the page Of narrative sincere...
Page 413 - In regions mild of calm and serene air, Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call Earth, and, with low-thoughted care.
Page 425 - Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods ; And time hath made thee what thou art — a cave For owls to roost in.
Page 427 - Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly Could shake thee to the root — and time has been When tempests could not.

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