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Poetical Works of William Wordsworth. The Works Of Alexander Pope. English Romantic Verse.

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Thomas Gray. Henry Howard Earl of Surrey. Thomas Moore. Macbeth Annotated by Henry N. Hudson with an Introduction by Charles Harold Herford. Poems of John Milton. John Milton. Works of Raphael Holinshed. Raphael Holinshed. Henry IV, Part I. Shakespeare's Rogues and Characters. John Awdeley. Marvell: Poems. Andrew Marvell.

Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Volume 3

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He gave a chauntry to redeem their souls; And put his brother into such a trade, That he Lord Mayor of London town was made. So have I seen a flower in summer-time Trod down and broke and wither in its prime. Where Canynge showeth as an instrument Was to my bismarde eyesight newly given; 'Tis past to blazon it to good content. You that would fain the festive building see Repair to Redcliff, and contented be.

When winter yelled through the leafless grove; when the black waves rode over the roaring winds, and the dark-brown clouds hid the face of the sun; when the silver brook stood still, and snow environed the top of the lofty mountain; when the flowers appeared not in the blasted fields, and the boughs of the leafless trees bent with the loads of ice; when the howling of the wolf affrighted the darkly glimmering light of the western sky; Kenrick, terrible as the tempest, young as the snake of the valley, strong as the mountain of the slain; his armour shining like the stars in the dark night, when the moon is veiled in sable, and the blasting winds howl over the wide plain; his shield like the black rock, prepared himself for war.

Ceolwolf of the high mountain, who viewed the first rays of the morning star, swift as the flying deer, strong as the young oak, fierce as an evening wolf, drew his sword; glittering like the blue vapours in the valley of Horso; terrible as the red lightning, bursting from the dark-brown clouds; his swift bark rode over the foaming waves, like the wind in the tempest; the arches fell at his blow, and he wrapped the towers in flames: he followed Kenrick, like a wolf roaming for prey. Centwin of the vale arose, he seized the massy spear; terrible was his voice, great was his strength; he hurled the rocks into the sea, and broke the strong oaks of the forest.

Slow in the race as the minutes of impatience. His spear, like the fury of a thunderbolt, swept down whole armies; his enemies melted before him, like the stones of hail at the approach of the sun. Awake, O Eldulph! No more pursue the dark-brown wolf: arise from the mossy bank of the falling waters; let thy garments be stained in blood, and the streams of life discolour thy girdle; let thy flowing hair be hid in a helmet, and thy beauteous countenance be writhed into terror. Egward, keeper of the barks, arise like the roaring waves of the sea: pursue the black companies of the enemy.

Ye Saxons, who live in the air and glide over the stars, act like yourselves. Like the murmuring voice of the Severn, swelled with rain, the Saxons moved along; like a blazing star the sword of Kenrick shone among the Britons; Tenyan bled at his feet; like the red lightning of heaven he burnt up the ranks of his enemy. Centwin raged like a wild boar. Tatward sported in blood; armies melted at his stroke.

Eldulph was a flaming vapour; destruction sat upon his sword.

Full text of "Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Complete"

Ceolwolf was drenched in gore, but fell like a rock before the sword of Mervin. Egward pursued the slayer of his friend; the blood of Mervin smoked on his hand. Like the rage of a tempest was the noise of the battle; like the roaring of the torrent, gushing from the brow of the lofty mountain. The Britons fled, like a black cloud dropping hail, flying before the howling winds. Ye virgins! Kenrick is returned from the war, the clotted gore hangs terrible upon his crooked sword, like the noxious vapours on the black rock; his knees are red with the gore of the foe.

Ye sons of the song, sound the instruments of music; ye virgins, dance around him. Costan of the lake, arise, take thy harp from the willow, sing the praise of Kenrick, to the sweet sound of the white waves sinking to the foundation of the black rock. Rejoice, O ye Saxons! Kenrick is victorious. Now dropping particles of water fall; Now vapours riding on the north wind's wing, With transitory darkness shadows all. Drowned in a butt of wine his genius lies. What sour reviewer read with vacant eye! What bard but decks his literary bier!

I cannot sing--I howl--I cry! Dr Johnson said once of Chesterfield, 'I thought him a lord among wits, but I find him to be only a wit among lords. He went to Eton and Oxford, where he distinguished himself. Having gone the usual grand tour, he entered Parliament, and became an opponent of Sir Robert Walpole. He was made secretary to the Prince of Wales, and was in this capacity useful to Mallett and Thomson. In , he married Lucy Fortescue, of Devonshire, who died five years afterwards.

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Lyttelton grieved sincerely for her, and wrote his affecting 'Monody' on the subject. When his party triumphed, he was created a Lord of the Treasury, and afterwards Chancellor of the Exchequer, with a peerage. He employed much of his leisure in literary composition, writing a good little book on the Conversion of St Paul, a laboured History of Henry II. Lyttelton himself died August 22, , aged sixty-four.

His History is now little read. It took him, it is said, thirty years to write it, and he employed another man to point it--a fact recalling what is told of Macaulay, that he sent the first volume of his 'History of England' to Lord Jeffrey, who overlooked the punctuation and criticised the style. Of a series of Dialogues issued by this writer, Dr Johnson remarked, with his usual pointed severity, 'Here is a man telling the world what the world had all his life been telling him.

At length escaped from every human eye, From every duty, every care, That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry; Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade, This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made, I now may give my burdened heart relief, And pour forth all my stores of grief; Of grief surpassing every other woe, Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love Can on the ennobled mind bestow, Exceeds the vulgar joys that move Our gross desires, inelegant and low. In vain I look around O'er all the well-known ground, My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry; Where oft we used to walk, Where oft in tender talk We saw the summer sun go down the sky; Nor by yon fountain's side, Nor where its waters glide Along the valley, can she now be found: In all the wide-stretched prospect's ample bound No more my mournful eye Can aught of her espy, But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.

Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns By your delighted mother's side: Who now your infant steps shall guide?

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  6. O loss beyond repair! O wretched father! Now she, alas! O best of wives! O dearer far to me Than when thy virgin charms Were yielded to my arms: How can my soul endure the loss of thee? How in the world, to me a desert grown, Abandoned and alone, Without my sweet companion can I live? Without thy lovely smile, The dear reward of every virtuous toil, What pleasures now can palled ambition give? Even the delightful sense of well-earned praise, Unshared by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could raise.

    For my distracted mind What succour can I find? On whom for consolation shall I call? Support me, every friend; Your kind assistance lend, To bear the weight of this oppressive woe. My books, the best relief In every other grief, Are now with your idea saddened all: Each favourite author we together read My tortured memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy dead. We were the happiest pair of human kind; The rolling year its varying course performed, And back returned again; Another and another smiling came, And saw our happiness unchanged remain: Still in her golden chain Harmonious concord did our wishes bind: Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same.

    O fatal, fatal stroke, That all this pleasing fabric love had raised Of rare felicity, On which even wanton vice with envy gazed, And every scheme of bliss our hearts had formed, With soothing hope, for many a future day, In one sad moment broke! We know very little of the history of this pleasing poet. Kate Morton. Your review has been submitted successfully. Not registered? Forgotten password Please enter your email address below and we'll send you a link to reset your password.

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