Oxford: A Poem

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S. Collingwood; pub. by Whittaker, London, 1831 - 258 pages

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Page 216 - O! why did God, Creator wise, that peopled highest heaven With spirits masculine, create at last This novelty on earth, this fair defect Of nature, and not fill the world at once With men, as angels, without feminine; Or find some other way to generate Mankind?
Page 189 - But wild beasts of the desert shall lie there; and their houses shall be full of doleful creatures; and owls shall dwell there, and satyrs shall dance there.
Page 204 - Hie, dum sublimis versus ructatur et errat, Si veluti merulis intentus decidit auceps In puteum foveamve, licet, ' Succurrite,
Page 190 - Oxford with a stock of erudition that might have puzzled a doctor, and a degree of ignorance of which a school-boy would have been ashamed.
Page 219 - Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears ; To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Page 225 - Twere well might Critics still this freedom take, But Appius reddens at each word you speak, And stares, tremendous, with a threat'ning eye, Like some fierce Tyrant in old tapestry.
Page 236 - Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights, How oft unwearied have we spent the nights, Till the Ledaean stars, so famed for love, Wonder'd at us from above! We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine ; But search of deep Philosophy, Wit, Eloquence, and Poetry, Arts which I loved, for they, my friend, were thine.
Page 197 - Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses ; whatever makes the past, the distant, or the future predominate over the present, advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me and from my friends be such frigid philosophy, as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow • warmer among...
Page 215 - Wo to her stubborn heart, if once mine come Into the self-same room, 'Twill tear and blow up all within, Like a grenado shot into a magazin. Then shall Love keep the ashes, and torn parts, Of both our broken hearts : Shall out of both one new one make ; From her's th" allay; from mine, the metal take.
Page 196 - A poet, while living, is seldom an object sufficiently great to attract much attention ; his real merits are known but to a few, and these are generally sparing in their praises. When his fame is increased by time, it is then too late to investigate the peculiarities of his disposition ; the dews of morning are past, and we vainly try to continue the chase by the meridian splendor.

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