Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
Commerce changes the fate and genius of nations.
A fav'rite has no friend!
Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly rising o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes, Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm.
Where once my careless childhood strayed, / A stranger yet to pain.
To each his suff'rings: all are men, / Condemn'd alike to groan, / The tender for another's pain; / Th' unfeeling for his own.
England, so long mistress of the sea, Where winds and waves confess her sovereignty, Her ancient triumphs yet on high shall bear And reign the sovereign of the conquered air.
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The meanest flowret of the vale, / The simplest note that swells the gale, / The common sun, the air, and skies, / To him are opening paradise.
Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.
And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.
When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
Can storied urn, or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
The time will come, when thou shalt lift thine eyes To watch a long-drawn battle in the skies. While aged peasants, too amazed for words, Stare at the flying fleets of wondrous birds.
Man's feeble race what ills await!
Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,
Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,
And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!
The insect-youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,
And float amid the liquid noon!
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