The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Crabbe with his letters and journals, and his life, by his son. In eight volumes |
I. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IX. |
[“Yes, I behold again the place] |
X. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
III, IV, V. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXIV. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
VI, VII. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
VIII. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
I. |
II. |
VII. |
I. |
II. |
VIII. |
I. |
II. |
IX. |
I. |
II. |
X. |
I. |
II. |
XI. |
I. |
II. |
XII. |
I. |
II. |
XIII. |
I. |
II. |
XIV. |
I. |
II. |
XV. |
I. |
II. |
XVI. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
XVII. |
I. |
II. |
XVIII. |
I. |
II. |
XIX. |
I. |
II. |
XX. |
I. |
II. |
XXI. |
I. |
II. |
XXII. |
I. |
[CHAPTER IX.]
The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Crabbe | ||
[“Yes, I behold again the place]
“Yes, I behold again the place,
The seat of joy, the source of pain;
It brings in view the form and face
That I must never see again.
The seat of joy, the source of pain;
It brings in view the form and face
That I must never see again.
214
“The night-bird's song that sweetly floats
On this soft gloom—this balmy air,
Brings to the mind her sweeter notes
That I again must never hear.
On this soft gloom—this balmy air,
Brings to the mind her sweeter notes
That I again must never hear.
“Lo! yonder shines that window's light,
My guide, my token, heretofore;
And now again it shines as bright,
When those dear eyes can shine no more.
My guide, my token, heretofore;
And now again it shines as bright,
When those dear eyes can shine no more.
“Then hurry from this place away!
It gives not now the bliss it gave;
For Death has made its charm his prey,
And joy is buried in her grave.”
It gives not now the bliss it gave;
For Death has made its charm his prey,
And joy is buried in her grave.”
[CHAPTER IX.]
The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Crabbe | ||