I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free,

And give them voice and utterance once again.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,

Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,

And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn

Throws up a steamy column, and the cups

That cheer but not inebriate wait on each,

So let us welcome peaceful evening in.

William Cowper (1731-1800): The Task. Book iv. The Winter Evening. Line 34.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): Elegy in a Country Churchyard. Stanza 11.

Oh, tenderly the haughty day

Fills his blue urn with fire.

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882): Ode, Concord, July 4, 1857.

Bright-eyed Fancy, hov'ring o'er,

Scatters from her pictured urn

Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.

Thomas Gray (1716-1771): The Progress of Poesy. III. 3, Line 2.

So his life has flowed

From its mysterious urn a sacred stream,

In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure

Alone are mirrored; which, though shapes of ill

May hover round its surface, glides in light,

And takes no shadow from them.

Thomas Noon Talfourd (1795-1854): Ion. Act i. Sc. 1.

But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?

Oh when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?

James Beattie (1735-1803): The Hermit.

With one hand he put

A penny in the urn of poverty,

And with the other took a shilling out.

Robert Pollok (1799-1827): The Course of Time. Book viii. Line 632.