103 quotes
And Mecca saddens at the long delay.
The Seasons (1726)
Their only labour was to kill the time;
And labour dire it is, and weary woe,
They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme,
Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go,
Or saunter forth, with tottering steps and slow.
The Castle of Indolence (1748)
To thee belongs the rural reign;
Thy cities shall with commerce shine:
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore it circles thine.
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves.
For is there aught in Sleep can charm the wise?
To lie in dead oblivion, loosing half
The fleeting moments of too short a life—
* * * * * *
Who would in such a gloomy state remain
Longer than Nature craves?
When Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sung this strain:
'Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.'
Crowned with the sickle, and the wheaten sheaf,
While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain,
Comes jovial on.
The Seasons (1726)
See, Winter comes to rule the varied year,
Sullen and sad.
The Seasons (1726)
Welcome, kindred glooms!
Congenial horrors, hail!
The Seasons (1726)
Ah! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven,
When drooping health and spirits go amiss?
How tasteless then whatever can be given!
Health is the vital principle of bliss,
And exercise, of health.
The Castle of Indolence (1748)
Pure was the temperate Air, an even Calm
Perpetual reign'd, save what the Zephyrs bland
Breath'd o'er the blue expanse.
The Seasons (1726)
The Hawthorn whitens; and the juicy Groves
Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees,
Till the whole leafy Forest stands displayed,
In full luxuriance, to the sighing gales.
The Seasons (1726)
I know no subject more elevating, more amazing, more ready to the poetical enthusiasm, the philosophical reflection, and the moral sentiment than the works of nature. Where can we meet such variety, such beauty, such magnificence?
The Seasons (1726)
Tipt with jet,
Fair ermines, spotless as the snows they press;
Sables, of glossy black; and dark-embrown’d,
Or beauteous freakt with many a mingled hue,
Thousands besides, the costly pride of courts.
Now the soft hour
Of walking comes, for him who lonely loves
To seek the distant hills, and there converse
With Nature, there to harmonize his heart,
And in pathetic Song to breathe around
The harmony to others.
As like the sacred queen of night,
Who pours a lovely, gentle light
Wide o'er the dark, by wanderers blest,
Conducting them to peace and rest.
Sighed and looked unutterable things.
The Seasons (1726)
Poor is the triumph o’er the timid hare!
Scared from the corn, and now to some lone seat
Retired—
The Seasons (1726)
What, but God?
Inspiring God! who boundless Spirit all,
And unremitting Energy, pervades,
Adjusts, sustains, and agitates the whole.
The Seasons (1726)
Think, oh, grateful think!
How good the God of Harvest is to you;
Who pours abundance o'er your flowing fields,
While, those unhappy partners of your kind
Wide-hover round you, like the fowls of heaven,
And ask their humble dole.
The Seasons (1726)
Her polish'd limbs,
Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire;
Beyond the pomp of dress; for Loveliness
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most.
The Seasons (1726)