The Poetical Works of Edward Young ...

Little, Brown, 1859

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Page 163 - The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young. The jolly god in triumph comes ; Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ; Flushed with a purple grace He shows his honest face : Now give the hautboys breath ; he comes, he comes.
Page 83 - I'm nearer death in this verse than the last : What then is to be done ? be wise with speed : A fool at forty is a fool indeed.
Page 26 - Which in eternity's deep bosom lies ! At the great day of recompense behold, Devoid of fear, the fatal book unfold ! Then wafted upward to the blissful seat, From age to age, my grateful song repeat ; My light, my life, my God, my Saviour see, And rival angels in the praise of thee.
Page 102 - O fairest of creation, last and best Of all God's works ! creature, in whom excell'd Whatever can to sight or thought be form'd, Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet!
Page 208 - Britain boasts her empire o'er the deep, This marble shall compel the brave to weep : As men, as Britons, and as soldiers, mourn ; 'Tis dauntless, loyal, virtuous Beauclerk's urn. Sweet were his manners, as his soul was great, And ripe his worth, though immature his fate ; Each tender grace that joy and love inspires, Living, he mingled with his martial fires : Dying, he bid Britannia's thunders roar ; And Spain still felt him, when he breathed no more.
Page 59 - But it is possible that satire may not do much good. Men may rise in their affections to their follies, as they do to their friends, when they are abused by others. It is much to be feared that misconduct will never be chased out of the world by satire: all, therefore, that is to be said for it is, that misconduct will certainly be never chased out of the world by satire, if no satires are written.
Page 145 - One to destroy, is murder by the law ; And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe ; To murder thousands, takes a specious name, War's glorious art, and gives immortal fame.
Page 109 - s his patient ? At the ball. The doctor stares ; her woman curtsies low, And cries, " My Lady, Sir, is always so: " Diversions put her maladies to flight : " True, she can't stand, but she can dance all night : " I've known my Lady (for she loves a tune) " for fevers take an opera in June: " And, tho' perhaps you'll think the practice bold, " A midnight Park is sov'reign for a cold : " With cholics, breakfasts of green fruit agree ; " With indigestions, supper just at three.
Page 146 - Some future strain, in which the Muse shall tell How science dwindles, and how volumes swell. How commentators each dark passage shun, And hold their farthing candle to the Sun.
Page 72 - Give me, indulgent gods ! with mind serene, And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene ; "No splendid poverty, no smiling care, No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there : There pleasing objects useful thought suggest ; The sense is ravished, and the soul is blest ; On every thorn delightful wisdom grows ; In every rill a sweet instruction flows.

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