The pleasures of hope; with other poems

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Fleischer, 1803 - Всего страниц: 144
 

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Стр. 108 - I have marshalled my clan, Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death.
Стр. 109 - Lochiel, beware of the day ! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal : 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before.
Стр. 100 - Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger, The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger, — A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived , shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh ! Erin, my country!
Стр. 30 - Departed spirits of the mighty dead! Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled! Friends of the world! restore your swords to man, Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van! Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, And make her arm puissant as your own! Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return The patriot TELL — the BRUCE OF BANNOCKBURN!
Стр. 108 - Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel, the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ! Return to thy dwelling, all lonely return ! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.
Стр. 107 - Companionless bearing destruction abroad ; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! Ah, home let him speed, — for the spoiler is nigh ! Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? 'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel, the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements...
Стр. 93 - I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Стр. 114 - Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave ! And charge with all thy chivalry ! Few, few, shall part where many meet ! The snow shall be their winding sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
Стр. 72 - What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain! I smile on death, if Heavenward HOPE remain! But, if the warring winds of Nature's strife Be all the faithless charter of my life, If Chance awaked, inexorable power...
Стр. 29 - Heaven; ere Freedom found a grave, Why slept the sword omnipotent to save? Where was thine arm, O Vengeance!

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