The Lyre: Fugitive Poetry of the Xixth CenturyJ. Sharpe, 1830 - Всего страниц: 360 |
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Стр. 22
... gone , Hath left within my bosom deep the thrilling of its tone , I find that murmur in your notes - they touch the chords of thought , And a sudden flow of tenderness across my soul is brought . If I have bid a spot farewell , on whose ...
... gone , Hath left within my bosom deep the thrilling of its tone , I find that murmur in your notes - they touch the chords of thought , And a sudden flow of tenderness across my soul is brought . If I have bid a spot farewell , on whose ...
Стр. 42
... gone by , That blames and mourns the past , yet leaves Her warrior and her bard to die . To die in poverty and pride , The light of hope and genius past , Each feeling wrung , until the heart Could bear no more , so broke at last . Thus ...
... gone by , That blames and mourns the past , yet leaves Her warrior and her bard to die . To die in poverty and pride , The light of hope and genius past , Each feeling wrung , until the heart Could bear no more , so broke at last . Thus ...
Стр. 59
... gone , And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; But nothing he'll reck , if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him . 60 BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE . But half of 59 59 The Burial of Sir John Moore By the Rev C Wolfe.
... gone , And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; But nothing he'll reck , if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him . 60 BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE . But half of 59 59 The Burial of Sir John Moore By the Rev C Wolfe.
Стр. 65
... Gone with the dream of things that were , As if they ne'er had been . Beyond the wanderings of the morn , Beyond the portals of the day , Unto a land whence none return , Our Fathers - where are they ? The vanish'd comet long deem'd ...
... Gone with the dream of things that were , As if they ne'er had been . Beyond the wanderings of the morn , Beyond the portals of the day , Unto a land whence none return , Our Fathers - where are they ? The vanish'd comet long deem'd ...
Стр. 66
... gone ? Ye stars , to your all - seeing eyes Is the great secret known ? Ye breathe not of their place of rest , But roll in silence on your way , And the lorn echoes of the breast Still answer - Where are they ? TO MRS . HEMANS . THY ...
... gone ? Ye stars , to your all - seeing eyes Is the great secret known ? Ye breathe not of their place of rest , But roll in silence on your way , And the lorn echoes of the breast Still answer - Where are they ? TO MRS . HEMANS . THY ...
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ALARIC beauty beneath billows bird bless'd blue bosom bower breast breath bright bright eyes brow calm cheek cloud cold dark dead death deep dream e'en earth EAST INDIAMAN EOLIAN faded fair fame feeling flowers forget gaze gentle gleam glory glow gone grave green grief hath hear heard heart heaven helmet of Navarre Henry of Navarre hope hour land life's light lips lonely look look'd LORD BYRON lute LYRE moon morning mountain murmur N. P. WILLIS ne'er NELL GWYN never night o'er pale pass'd rest rose round Sappho seem'd shade shine shore SICILIAN VESPERS sigh silent skies sleep smile soft song sorrow soul sound spirit spring stars storm stream sweet tears tempest thee thine thou art thou hast thou wert thought turn'd Twas Valentine's day voice waking eye wave weep wild winds wings young youth
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Стр. 197 - Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
Стр. 59 - And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may — For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray — Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre.
Стр. 197 - The wind'flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade and glen.
Стр. 284 - Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear...
Стр. 57 - We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
Стр. 23 - Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers. I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon — Her health! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name.
Стр. 61 - Bartholomew," was passed from man to man, But out spake gentle Henry "No Frenchman is my foe. Down, down, with every foreigner, but let your brethren go...
Стр. 86 - To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'd.
Стр. 167 - O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder...
Стр. 58 - Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy cornfields green and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France ! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.