Death: A Seatonian Prize Poem

J. Spragg, 1803 - 66 Seiten

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Seite vi - The other shape, If shape it might be call'd that shape had none Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb ; Or substance might be call'd that shadow seem'd, For each seem'd either: black it stood as night, Fierce as ten furies, terrible as Hell, And shook a dreadful dart ; what seem'd his head The likeness of a kingly crown had on.
Seite v - POETICAL•. SEATONIAN PRIZE. The Rev. Thomas Seaton, MA late Fellow of Clare Hall, bequeathed to the University the rents of his Kislingbury estate, now producing clear £40. per annum, to be given yearly to that Master of Arts who shall write the best English Poem on a sacred subject.
Seite ix - Unterrified, and like a comet burn'd, That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge In the arctic sky, and from his horrid hair Shakes pestilence and war.
Seite 19 - Yet still they breathe destruction, still go on Inhumanly ingenious to find out New pains for life, new terrors for the grave. Artificers of Death ! Still monarchs dream Of universal empire growing up From universal ruin. Blast the design, Great God of Hosts, nor let thy creatures fall Unpitied victims at Ambition's shrine...
Seite 20 - Down the smooth stream of life the stripling darts, Gay as the morn ; bright glows the vernal sky, Hope swells his sails, and passion steers his course, Safe glides his little bark along the shore Where virtue takes her stand ; but if too far He launches forth beyond discretion's mark, Sudden the tempest scowls, the surges roar, Blot his fair day, and plunge him in the deep.
Seite ix - At dead of night. In sullen silence stalks forth PESTILENCE ; CONTAGION close behind taints all her steps With poisonous dew ; no smiting hand is seen, No sound is heard, but soon her secret path Is marked with desolation ; heaps on heaps Promiscuous drop. No friend, no refuge, near ; All, all is false and treacherous around, All that they touch, or taste, or breathe, is DEATH.
Seite 18 - God abhorr'd, with violence rude to break The thread of life, ere half its length was run, And rob a wretched brother of his being. With joy Ambition saw, and soon improved The execrable deed. 'Twas not enough, By subtle Fraud, to snatch a single life, Puny impiety...
Seite 17 - He dropp'd like mellow fruit into his grave. Such in the infancy of time was man; So calm was life, so impotent was Death!
Seite 25 - At thy good time Let Death approach ; I reck not — let him but come In genuine form, not with thy vengeance arm'd, Too much for man to bear.
Seite 18 - Twas Man himself Brought Death into the world ; and Man himself Gave keenness to his darts, quicken'd his pace, And multiplied destruction on mankind.

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