Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade; Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think.
Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.
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.
In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
And weep the more, because I weep in vain. Thomas
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear, He gained from Heav'n ('t was all he wish'd) a friend.
I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state.
Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,Less pleasing when possest;The tear forgot as soon as shed,The sunshine of the breast.
Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes, / Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; / Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, / That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey.
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
He gave to misery (all he had) a tear.
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault / The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Commerce changes the fate and genius of nations.
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all that glisters gold.
Hell is full of good intentions.
Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
I shall be but a shrimp of an author. Thomas Gra
One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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.
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
We've got 10 seniors starting on the offense, and I'm the only junior, so I was a little nervous before the game. But I got comfortable after the first drive and we played well.
To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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.
From toil he wins his spirits light, From busy day the peaceful night; Rich, from the very want of wealth, In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.