The Poems of William Collins

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Ginn, 1898 - 135 pages

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Page 60 - Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round ; Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound : And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
Page 64 - Nature's child, again adieu! The genial meads, assigned to bless Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom, Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress With simple hands thy rural tomb. Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes: 'O! vales and wild woods,' shall he say, 'In yonder grave your Druid lies!' (>749) 256 An Ode on the Popular Superstitions of the Highlands of Scotland, Considered as the Subject of Poetry HOME, thou return's!
Page 57 - Madness ruled the hour) Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why, E'en at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rush'd; his eyes on fire, In lightnings own'd his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings.
Page 53 - Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams. Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut That, from the mountain's side, Views wilds and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires ; And hears their simple bell; and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil.
Page 78 - He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone, At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
Page 70 - Or thither where beneath the show'ry west The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid : Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest. No slaves revere them, and no wars invade : Yet frequent now, at midnight's solemn hour...
Page 52 - O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises, 'midst the twilight path Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum...
Page 99 - The story of Cambuscan bold, Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to wife, That owned the virtuous ring and glass, And of the wondrous horse of brass, On which the Tartar king did ride...
Page 58 - And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.
Page 52 - Whose numbers stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit, As, musing...

About the author (1898)

Collins published only a handful of poems before insanity clouded the remainder of his brief life. In 1754 he was confined to an asylum, having suffered from mental illness since 1751. His odes and lyrics, often difficult for the casual reader to grasp, have come to be regarded by some eminent critics as masterworks and touchstones of political taste. The young Coleridge wrote that Collins's Ode on the Poetical Character (1747) had moved him as much as anything in Shakespeare. Two of his other best-known works are Ode to Evening and Ode Written in the Beginning of the Year 1746.

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