The Grave: A Poem

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Methuen, 1903 - Death - 44 pages
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This book contains Robert Blair's poem "The Grave" accompanied by illustrations by William Blake.

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Page 28 - Sure the last end Of the good man is peace ! How calm his exit ! Night-dews fall not more gently to the ground, Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft.
Page 2 - ... midst the wreck of things which were; There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. The wind is up: hark ! how it howls ! Methinks Till now, I never heard a sound so dreary: Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird...
Page 5 - Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury Of dress. — Oh ! then the longest summer's 'day Seem'd too, too much in haste : still the full heart Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness Too exquisite to last.
Page 15 - How shocking must thy summons be, O Death ! To him that is at ease in his possessions! Who counting on long years of pleasure here, Is quite unfurnish'd for the world to come ! In that dread moment, how the frantic soul Raves round the walls of her clay tenement; Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help; But shrieks in vain ! How wishfully she looks On all she's leaving, now no longer hers!
Page 28 - We wish to be where sweets unwithering bloom ; But straight our wish revoke, and will not go. So have I seen, upon a summer's even, Fast by the rivulet's brink, a youngster play : How wishfully he looks to stem the tide ! This moment resolute, next unresolv'd : At last he dips his foot ; but as he dips, His fears redouble, and he runs away From the...
Page 8 - Like a hard-hunted beast. How his great heart Beats thick ! his roomy chest by far too scant To give the lungs full play...
Page 13 - Unconscious of his strength, to play the coward, And flee before a feeble thing like man ; That, knowing well the slackness of his arm, Trusts only in the well-invented knife...
Page 5 - Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ! Sweetener of life, and solder of society! I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. Oft have I proved the labours of thy love, And the warm efforts of the gentle heart, Anxious to please.
Page 28 - Tis but a night, a long and moonless night ; We make the grave our bed, and then are gone. Thus, at the shut of even, the weary bird Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake Cowers down, and dozes till the dawn of day ; Then claps his well-fledg'd wings and bears away.

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