The Works of the Rev. George Crabbe: In Five Volumes. Vol. I. [-V.].

John Murray, Albemarle-Street., 1823

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Página 6 - Where the thin harvest waves its wither'd ears ; Rank weeds, that every art and care defy, Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted rye : There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar, And to the ragged infant threaten war ; There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil ; There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil ; Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf, The slimy mallow waves her silky leaf; O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade, And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade...
Página 3 - Their country's beauty or their nymphs' rehearse: Yet still for these we frame the tender strain; Still in our lays fond Corydons complain, And shepherds' boys their amorous pains reveal — The only pains, alas!
Página 86 - Pale her parch'd lips, her heavy eyes sunk low, And tears unnoticed from their channels flow; Serene her manner, till some sudden pain Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again;— Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes, And every step with cautious terror makes; For not alone that infant in her arms, But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms.
Página 9 - Where Plenty smiles - alas! she smiles for few And those who taste not, yet behold her store, Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore, The wealth around them makes them doubly poor.
Página 25 - Such are their natures and their passions such, But these disguise too little, those too much : So shall the man of power and pleasure...
Página 7 - Whose outward splendour is but folly's dress, Exposing most, when most it gilds distress. Here joyless roam a wild amphibious race, With sullen woe display'd in every face; Who, far from civil arts and social fly, And scowl at strangers with suspicious eye. Here too the lawless merchant of the main Draws from his plough th' intoxicated swain; Want only claim' d the labour of the day, But vice now steals his nightly rest away.
Página 13 - Theirs is yon House that holds the parish poor, Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door; There, where the putrid vapours, flagging, play, And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day; There children dwell who know no parents' care; Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there!
Página 250 - They placed me where those streamers play, Those nimble beams of brilliant light; It would the stoutest heart dismay, To see, to feel, that dreadful sight: So swift, so pure, so cold, so bright, They pierced my frame with icy wound, And, all that half-year's polar night, Those dancing streamers wrapp'd me round.
Página 117 - Dark but not awful, dismal but yet mean, With anxious bustle moves the cumbrous scene ; Presents no objects tender or profound, But spreads its cold unmeaning gloom around.
Página 9 - See them beneath the dog-star's raging heat, When the knees tremble and the temples beat; Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er The labour past, and toils to come explore; See them alternate suns and showers engage, And hoard up aches and anguish for their age...

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