The Hopes of Matrimony: A Poem--

F. Westley, 1822 - 68 páginas

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Página 5 - Attractive, human, rational, love still : In loving thou dost well, in passion not, Wherein true love consists not. Love refines The thoughts, and heart enlarges ; hath his seat In reason, and is judicious ; is the scale By which to heavenly love thou may'st ascend, Not sunk in carnal pleasure : for which cause, Among the beasts no mate for thee was found.
Página 27 - Though few now taste thee unimpair'd and pure, Or tasting long enjoy thee ! too infirm, Or too incautious, to preserve thy sweets Unmix'd with drops of bitter, which neglect Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup ; Thou art the nurse of Virtue, in thine arms She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is, Heaven-born, and destined to the skies again.
Página 27 - Paradise that hast survived the fall ! Though few now taste thee unimpair'd and pure, Or, tasting, long enjoy thee, too infirm Or too incautious to preserve thy sweets Unmixt with drops of bitter, which neglect Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup : Thou art the nurse ot virtue.
Página 31 - How fair is home, in fancy's pictured theme, In wedded life, in love's romantic dream! Thence springs each hope, there every spring returns, Pure as the flame that upward heavenward burns; There sits the wife, whose radiant smile is given — The daily sun of the domestic heaven; And when calm evening sheds a secret power, Her looks of love imparadise the hour; While children round, a beauteous train, appear, Attendant stars, revolving in her sphere.
Página 7 - In childhood's dawn, when budding reason springs, There the young passion spreads its cherub wings ; Bids new and undefined emotions start, Play in the mind, and flutter round the heart. The boy at school prefers, with artless smile, Some favourite girl that flatters him the while ; Shares in her tasks with pleasure through the day ; Selects her as his mate at evening play ; With her most happy, seated at...
Página 34 - English mother bore me, and caress'd ; And with the stream of life, upon her breast I drew the patriot passion, still, which reigns Pure as the blood from those maternal veins : Then oh, forgive the hand that would entwine, With that dear mother's worth, one grateful line !

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