Rambling Reflections in Greenwood: With a Description of the Same, in 1853

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G.W. Wood, 1853 - 60 páginas
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Página 28 - When some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, And storied urns record who rests below; When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been...
Página 3 - Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: The genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of a man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection.
Página 22 - I AM monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute ; From the centre all round to the sea I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 0 Solitude ! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face ? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place.
Página 31 - The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes...
Página 25 - Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?
Página 49 - Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth; Let's choose executors and talk of wills : And yet not so — for what can we bequeath Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own but death, And that small model...
Página 43 - THERE is a tear for all that die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave ; But nations swell the funeral cry, And Triumph weeps above the brave. For them is Sorrow's purest sigh O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent : In vain their bones unburied lie, All earth becomes their monument ! A tomb is theirs on every page, An epitaph on every tongue : The present hours, the future age, For them bewail, to them belong.
Página 15 - The gates of hell are open night and day ; Smooth the descent, and easy is the way : But, to return, and view the cheerful skies — In this the task and mighty labour lies.
Página 40 - Light be the turf of thy tomb ! May its verdure like emeralds be : There should not be the shadow of gloom In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest : But nor cypress nor yew let us see ; For why should we mourn for the blest ? WHEN WE TWO PARTED.
Página 51 - Live not the stars and mountains ? Are the waves Without a spirit? Are the dropping caves Without a feeling in their silent tears? No, no : — they woo and clasp us to their spheres, Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before Its hour, and merge our soul in the great shore.

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