English Poets of the Eighteenth Century eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 437 pages of information about English Poets of the Eighteenth Century.



  Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell,
  With all your feeble light;
  Farewell, thou ever-changing moon,
  Pale empress of the night.

  And thou refulgent orb of day,
  In brighter flames arrayed;
  My soul that springs beyond thy sphere,
  No more demands thine aid.

  Ye stars are but the shining dust
  Of my divine abode,
  The pavement of those heavenly courts
  Where I shall reign with God.

  The Father of eternal light
  Shall there His beams display;
  Nor shall one moment’s darkness mix
  With that unvaried day.

  No more the drops of piercing grief
  Shall swell into mine eyes;
  Nor the meridian sun decline
  Amidst those brighter skies.



  Here on this verdant spot, where nature kind,
  With double blessings crowns the farmer’s hopes;
  Where flowers autumnal spring, and the rank mead
  Affords the wandering hares a rich repast;
  Throw off thy ready pack.  See, where they spread
  And range around, and dash the glittering dew. 
  If some staunch hound, with his authentic voice,
  Avow the recent trail, the justling tribe
  Attend his call, then with one mutual cry,
  The welcome news confirm, and echoing hills
  Repeat the pleasing tale.  See how they thread
  The brakes, and up yon furrow drive along! 
  But quick they back recoil, and wisely check
  Their eager haste; then o’er the fallowed ground
  How leisurely they work, and many a pause
  Th’ harmonious concert breaks; till more assured
  With joy redoubled the low valleys ring. 
  What artful labyrinths perplex their way! 
  Ah! there she lies; how close! she pants, she doubts
  If now she lives; she trembles as she sits,
  With horror seized.  The withered grass that clings
  Around her head of the same russet hue
  Almost deceived my sight, had not her eyes
  With life full-beaming her vain wiles betrayed. 
  At distance draw thy pack, let all be hushed,
  No clamour loud, no frantic joy be heard,
  Lest the wild hound run gadding o’er the plain
  Untractable, nor hear thy chiding voice. 
  Now gently put her off; see how direct
  To her known mew she flies!  Here, huntsman, bring
  (But without hurry) all thy jolly hounds,
  And calmly lay them in.  How low they stoop,
  And seem to plough the ground! then all at once
  With greedy nostrils snuff the fuming steam
  That glads their fluttering hearts.  As winds let loose
  From the dark caverns of the blustering god,
  They burst away, and sweep the dewy lawn. 
  Hope gives them wings, while she’s spurred on by fear;
  The welkin rings; men, dogs, hills, racks, and woods
  In the full concert join.  Now, my

Project Gutenberg
English Poets of the Eighteenth Century from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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