The British Quarterly Review, Том 15

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Henry Allon
Hodder and Stoughton, 1852

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Стр. 297 - ... to dive into the depths of dungeons; to plunge into the infection of hospitals; to survey the mansions of sorrow and pain; to take the gauge and dimensions of misery, depression, and contempt; to remember the forgotten, to attend to the neglected, to visit the forsaken, and to compare and collate the distresses of all men in all countries.
Стр. 81 - What are these, So withered, and so wild in their attire; That look not like the inhabitants o
Стр. 493 - Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe and pale jessamine, The white pink and the pansy freaked with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears : Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
Стр. 493 - Return, Alpheus; the dread voice is past That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.
Стр. 251 - For the first time for many months • it seems possible to send you a few words ; merely, however, ' for Remembrance and Farewell. On higher matters there ' is nothing to say. I tread the common road into the great ' darkness, without any thought of fear, and with very much of t ' hope. Certainty indeed I have none.
Стр. 507 - DEAR Harp of my country ! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp ! I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song...
Стр. 1 - Henry J.) A Ride over the Rocky Mountains to Oregon and California, with a glance at some of the Tropical Islands, including the West Indies and the Sandwich Isles.
Стр. 490 - WHO has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave, Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave...
Стр. 507 - That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine; Go, sleep, with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine.
Стр. 496 - Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, And coolly spout and spout and spout away, In one weak, washy, everlasting flood ! EPIGRAM.

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