Two centuries of song - or, Lyrics, madrigals, sonnets, and other occasional verses of the English poets of the last two hundred years (1867) (14592576910)

Identifier: twocenturiesofso00thor (find matches)
Title: Two centuries of song : or, Lyrics, madrigals, sonnets, and other occasional verses of the English poets of the last two hundred years
Year: 1867 (1860s)
Authors: Thornbury, Walter, 1828-1876
Subjects: English poetry
Publisher: London : Sampson, Low, Son and Marston
Contributing Library: University of California Libraries
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN



Text Appearing Before Image:
ills the heart it heats too fast, Take half my passion to your breast :The rest in mine shall ever last. CHLOE HUNTING. Behind her neck her comely tresses tied, Her ivory quiver graceful by her side, A-hunting Chloe went : she lost her way, And through the woods uncertain chanced to stra>-. Apollo passing by beheld the maid, And, Sister dear, bright Cynthia, turn, he said : The hunted hind lies close in yonder brake. Loud Cupid laughed to see the gods mistake ; And, laughing, cried, Learn better, great divine, To know thy kindred and to honour mine. Rightly advised far hence thy sister seek. Or on Meanders bank or Latmus peak. But in this nymph my friend, my sister know : She draws my arrows, and she bends my bow ; Fair Thames she haunts, and every neighbouring grove Sacred to soft recess and gentle love. Go, with thy Cynthia hurl the pointed spear At the rough boar, or chase the flying deer : I and my Chloe take a nobler aim ; At human hearts we fling, nor ever miss the game. 50 o
Text Appearing After Image:
(^ \^) • jV^TJ ^= <^ v\ o TO Clll.oi: WEEPING. Sec, whilst thou wcepst, fair Chloe, secThe world in sympathy with thee.The cheerful birds no longer sing,Each droops his head and hangs his wing.The clouds have bent their bosom lower,And shed their sorrows in a shower:The brooks beyond their limits flow,And louder murmurs speak their woe :The nymphs and swains adopt thy cares.They heave thy sighs and weep thy tears.Fantastic nymph I that grief should moveThy heart obdurate against love.Strange tears I whose power can soften allBut that dear breast on which thev fall. CUllD MISTAKEN. As after noon, one summers day,Venus stood bathing in a river, Cupid a-shooting went that way. New strung his bow, new filled his quiver. With skill he chose his sharpest dart,With all his might his bow he drew ; Swift to his beauteous parents heartThe too well guided arrow flew. I faint ! I die I the goddess cried : O cruel ! couldst thou find none other To wreak thy spleen on ? parricide !Like Nero, t