The Age of Pope (1700-1744)

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G. Bell and sons, 1924 - 260 pages
 

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Page 51 - Nor public flame, nor private dares to shine; Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine Lo, thy dread empire, Chaos ! is restored; Light dies before thy uncreating word : Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall, And universal darkness buries all.
Page 89 - The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills; And let me catch it as I muse along. Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze Along the vale; and thou, majestic main, A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound His stupendous praise, whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall.
Page 110 - I hear a voice, you cannot hear, Which says, I must not stay ; I see a hand, you cannot see, Which beckons me away.
Page 82 - A worm ! a god ! I tremble at myself, And in myself am lost. At home a stranger, Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast. And wondering at her own. How reason reels . O, what a miracle to man is man ! Triumphantly distressed!
Page 82 - How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man ! How passing wonder He who made him such ! Who centered in our make such strange extremes.
Page 220 - Sir, he was a scoundrel, and a coward : a scoundrel for charging a blunderbuss against religion and morality ; a coward, because he had not resolution to fire it off himself, but left half a crown to a beggarly Scotchman to draw the trigger after his death...
Page 117 - Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found The warmest welcome — at an inn.
Page 89 - As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, Ye constellations, while your angels strike, Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. Great source of day! best image here below Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, From world to world, the vital ocean round, On Nature write with every beam His praise.
Page 32 - Oft she rejects, but never once offends. Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride...
Page 82 - An heir of glory! a frail child of dust! Helpless immortal! insect infinite! A worm! — a god! — I tremble at myself, And in myself am lost!

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