A lost battle [by A. Price].

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206 psl. - God pity them both ! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these :
171 psl. - Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk, Supported by the trembling Monk. XXXII With fruitless labour, Clara bound, And strove to stanch the gushing wound : The Monk, with unavailing cares, Exhausted all the Church's prayers. Ever, he said, that, close and near, A lady's voice was in his ear, And that the priest he could not hear, For that she ever sung, "In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying...
181 psl. - What would we give to our beloved? The hero's heart to be unmoved, The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep, The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse, The monarch's crown, to light the brows? — He giveth His beloved, sleep.
61 psl. - Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit ? Are beauties there as proud as here they be ? Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess ? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness ? 39 Come, Sleep ! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, Th...
42 psl. - Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day...
141 psl. - Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. 'Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; With that wild wheel we go not up or down; Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. ' Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; For man is man and master of his fate. ' Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd ; Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love...
211 psl. - When I remember something which I had, But which is gone, and I must do without, I sometimes wonder how I can be glad, Even in cowslip time when hedges sprout ; It makes me sigh to think on it, — but yet My days will not be better days, should I forget.
217 psl. - I said. But, there, The silver answer rang, — 'Not Death, but Love.
135 psl. - Ch' io ho veduto tutto il verno prima II prun mostrarsi rigido e feroce, Poscia portar la rosa in su la cima; E legno vidi già dritto e veloce Correr lo mar per tutto suo cammino, Perire al fine all
67 psl. - Some vestige of the laughing eyes Of arch Piozzi. For her e'en Time grew debonair. He, finding cheeks unclaimed of care, With late-delayed faint roses there, And lingering dimples, Had spared to touch the fair old face, And only kissed with Vauxhall grace The soft white hand that stroked her lace, Or smoothed her wimples. So left her beautiful. Her age Was comely as her youth was sage, And yet she once had been the rage ; — It hath been hinted, Indeed, affirmed by one or two, Some spark at Bath...

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