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Page 30 - But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves, Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves, Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws A death-like silence., and a dread repose: Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene, Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green, Deepens the murmur of the falling floods, And breathes a browner horror on the woods.
Page 28 - With other beauties charm my partial eyes, Full in my view fet all the bright abode, And make my foul quit Abelard for God.
Page 25 - Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine. Nor foes nor fortune take this power away ; And is my Abelard less kind than they?
Page 35 - Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me, Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee. Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign ; Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.
Page 38 - If ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs, O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads, And...
Page 28 - Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie, Still drink delicious poison from thy eye, Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd; Give all thou canst — and let me dream the rest.
Page 37 - I come, I come ! prepare your roseate bowers. Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flowers. Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go, Where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow : Thou, Abelard ! the last sad office pay, And smooth my passage to the realms of day : See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll, Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul ! Ah...
Page 30 - The darksome pines that o'er yon rocks reclin'd Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind, The wand'ring streams that shine between the hills, The grots that echo to the tinkling rills, The dying gales that pant upon the trees, The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze; No more these scenes my meditation aid, Or lull to rest the visionary maid.
Page 15 - And softly lay me on the waves below! And thou, kind Love, my sinking limbs sustain, Spread thy soft wings, and waft me o'er the main, Nor let a lover's death the guiltless flood profane! On Phoebus...
Page 48 - Critics I saw, that other names deface, And fix their own, with labour, in their place : Their own, like others, soon their place resign'd, Or disappear'd. and left the first behind. Nor was the work impair'd by storms alone, But felt th...