English ElegiesJohn Cann Bailey John Lane, 1900 - 236 psl. |
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iii psl.
John Cann Bailey. The Bodley Head Anthologies EDITED BY R. H. CASE ENGLISH ELEGIES THE BODLEY HEAD ANTHOLOGIES English Epithalamies By ROBERT CASE Musa.
John Cann Bailey. The Bodley Head Anthologies EDITED BY R. H. CASE ENGLISH ELEGIES THE BODLEY HEAD ANTHOLOGIES English Epithalamies By ROBERT CASE Musa.
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... Elegies By J. C. BAILEY IN PREPARATION Nineteenth - Century Pastorals By CHARLES HILL DICK Florilegium Latinum ( Victorian Poets ) By Rev. F. ST . JOHN THACKERAY and Rev. E. D. STONE The Bodley Antholo gies ENGLISH ELEGIES Edited by J. C..
... Elegies By J. C. BAILEY IN PREPARATION Nineteenth - Century Pastorals By CHARLES HILL DICK Florilegium Latinum ( Victorian Poets ) By Rev. F. ST . JOHN THACKERAY and Rev. E. D. STONE The Bodley Antholo gies ENGLISH ELEGIES Edited by J. C..
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... C. D. TRANSFER ENG 1945 23907 I DEDICATE THIS COLLECTION OF ENGLISH ELEGIES TO MY FRIEND FREDERIC GEORGE KENYON TO WHOSE SUGGESTION IT OWES ITS ORIGIN CONTENTS INTRODUCTION SPENSER DONNE JONSON · · Funeral Elegy • 3838 Hg 821.08 B + 54.
... C. D. TRANSFER ENG 1945 23907 I DEDICATE THIS COLLECTION OF ENGLISH ELEGIES TO MY FRIEND FREDERIC GEORGE KENYON TO WHOSE SUGGESTION IT OWES ITS ORIGIN CONTENTS INTRODUCTION SPENSER DONNE JONSON · · Funeral Elegy • 3838 Hg 821.08 B + 54.
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John Cann Bailey. CONTENTS INTRODUCTION SPENSER DONNE JONSON · · Funeral Elegy • Eupheme PAGE xiii Daphnaïda I 18 • · 21 DRYDEN . POPE JONSON • Ode on the Death of Mrs Anne Killigrew 28 · Elegy on an Unfortunate Lady • • 34 Elegy on Lady ...
John Cann Bailey. CONTENTS INTRODUCTION SPENSER DONNE JONSON · · Funeral Elegy • Eupheme PAGE xiii Daphnaïda I 18 • · 21 DRYDEN . POPE JONSON • Ode on the Death of Mrs Anne Killigrew 28 · Elegy on an Unfortunate Lady • • 34 Elegy on Lady ...
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... Elegy for his Astrophel Epitaph on Clere . 81 88 89 SPENSER . Astrophel • SPENSER . The Doleful Lay of Clorinda . BROWNE . The Fourth Eclogue of the " Shepherd's 91 100 107 Pipe " 110 MILTON . SURREY . • Lycidas 116 " So cruel prison ...
... Elegy for his Astrophel Epitaph on Clere . 81 88 89 SPENSER . Astrophel • SPENSER . The Doleful Lay of Clorinda . BROWNE . The Fourth Eclogue of the " Shepherd's 91 100 107 Pipe " 110 MILTON . SURREY . • Lycidas 116 " So cruel prison ...
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Alcyon Algernon Charles Swinburne Anne Killigrew Astrophel beauty Ben Jonson blest breast breath bright charm Crown 8vo Daily dead dear death delight divine dost doth earth elegiac elegy eternal eyes fair fame fate fear flower gentle glory gone grace grave grief hand happy hast hate hath hear heart heaven honoured JOHN LANE John Milton Jonson Lady lament light live Lycidas Matthew Arnold mind mortal mourn Muse Nature never night noble nought numbers o'er once pain pale Pall Mall Gazette Poems poetry poets praise rest Robert Bridges Robert Herrick sacred saints Shakspeare shepherds shine sigh sing Sir John Beaumont Sith sleep song sorrow soul Spenser spirit stars story sweet tears tender thee thine things thou art thought Timor Mortis conturbat tomb tree unto verse virtue Walter Savage Landor weep whilst William Wordsworth winds wretched
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48 psl. - Even such is time, that takes in trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with earth and dust ; Who, in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days ; But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My God shall raise me up, I trust ! ELIZABETHAN MISCELLANIES.
117 psl. - Ay me! I fondly dream! Had ye been there, for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore. The Muse herself for her enchanting son, Whom universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar, His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
118 psl. - Ah ! who hath reft," quoth he, " my dearest pledge ? " Last came, and last did go, The pilot of the Galilean Lake ; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : — " How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Anow of such as, for their bellies...
116 psl. - Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn...
146 psl. - You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising Sun Has not attain'd his noon. Stay, stay Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a Spring ; As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or any thing.
218 psl. - Most musical of mourners, weep again! Lament anew, Urania! — He died, Who was the Sire of an immortal strain, Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride The priest, the slave, and the liberticide Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified, Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of light.
230 psl. - He is made one with Nature : there is heard His voice in all her music, from the moan Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird ; He is a presence to be felt and known In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, Spreading itself where'er that Power may move Which has withdrawn his being to its own ; Which wields the world with never wearied love, Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.
174 psl. - NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning ; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.
142 psl. - Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike the inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
162 psl. - But hark ! my pulse, like a soft drum, Beats my approach, tells thee I come ; And slow howe'er my marches be, I shall at last sit down by thee. The thought of this bids me go on, And wait my dissolution With hope and comfort : Dear, (forgive The crime,) I am content to live Divided, with but half a heart, Till we shall meet and never part.