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Стр. 138 - What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower...
Стр. 138 - The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
Стр. 136 - Has not the soul, the being of your life, Received a shock of awful consciousness, In some calm season, when these lofty rocks At night's approach bring down the unclouded sky, To rest upon their circumambient walls ; A temple framing of dimensions vast.
Стр. 138 - No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay...
Стр. 41 - THE garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, Each simple flower which she had nflhsed in dew, Anemonies, that spangled every grove, The primrose wan, and hare-bell mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell, Or purple orchis variegate the plain. Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, And dress with humid hands her wreaths again.— Ah! poor humanity! so frail, so fair, Are the fond visions of thy early day, Till tyrant passion and corrosive care Bid all thy fairy colours fade...
Стр. 135 - She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition , sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
Стр. 139 - And, when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left, Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory, images and precious thoughts, That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.
Стр. 40 - O happy age! when Hope's unclouded ray Lights their green path, and prompts their simple mirth, Ere yet they feel the thorns that lurking lay To wound the wretched pilgrims of the earth, Making them rue the hour that gave them birth, And threw them on a world so full of pain, Where prosperous folly treads on patient worth, And to deaf pride misfortune pleads in vain ! Ah ! for their future fate how many fears Oppress my heart, and fill mine eyes with tears!
Стр. 136 - The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left Impressed on the white road, — in the same line, At distance still the same. Poor Traveller ! His staff trails with him ; scarcely do his feet Disturb the summer dust ; he is so still In look and motion, that the cottage curs, Ere he have passed the door, will turn away, Weary of barking at him.