The British Poets

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Little, Brown & Company, 1865

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Стр. 159 - It was my guide, my light, my all, it bade my dark forebodings cease ; and through the storm and danger's thrall it led me to the port of peace. Now safely moored — my perils o'er, I'll sing, first in night's diadem, for ever and for evermore, the Star— The Star of Bethlehem...
Стр. 159 - WHITE died at Cambridge in October 1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which Death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a period was allotted to talents, which would have dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to assume.
Стр. 80 - IT is not that my lot is low, That bids this silent tear to flow ; It is not grief that bids me moan, It is that I am all alone. In woods and glens I love to roam, When the tired hedger hies him home ; Or by the woodland pool to rest, When pale the star looks on its bretit.
Стр. 137 - And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare intrude, To break the marble solitude, So peaceful and so deep. And hark ! the wind-god, as he flies, Moans hollow in the forest trees, And sailing on the gusty breeze, Mysterious music dies. Sweet flower ! that requiem wild is mine, It warns me to the lonely shrine, The cold turf altar of the dead ; My grave shall be in yon lone spot, Where as I lie, by all forgot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.
Стр. 117 - Winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone, Thy tender elegance. So virtue blooms, brought forth amid...
Стр. 22 - By indistinct and half-glimpsed images, Misty, gigantic, huge, obscure, remote. Oh, it is fearful, on the midnight couch, When the rude rushing winds forget to rave, And the pale moon, that through the casement high Surveys the sleepless muser, stamps the hour Of utter silence, it is fearful then To steer the mind, in deadly solitude, Up the vague stream of probability ; To wind the mighty secrets of the past, And (urn the key of Time?
Стр. 68 - s caused, A few inquiries, and the crowds close in, And all 's forgotten. On my grassy grave The men of future times will careless tread, ' And read my name upon the sculptured stone ; Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears, Recall my vanish'd memory.
Стр. 59 - I am a youthful traveller in the way, And this slight boon would consecrate to thee, Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that...
Стр. 28 - Is toss'd beyond Cimmerian Bosphorus, Where Storm and Darkness hold their drear domain, And sunbeams never penetrate, might trust To expectation of serener skies, And linger in the very jaws of death, Because some peevish cloud were opening, Or the loud storm had bated in its rage ; As we look forward in this vale of tears To permanent delight — from some slight glimpse Of shadowy unsubstantial happiness.
Стр. 151 - twill be over soon, — this sickly dream Of life will vanish from my feverish brain : And death my wearied spirit will redeem From this wild region of unvaried pain. Yon brook will glide as softly as before, Yon landscape smile, yon golden harvest grow, Yon sprightly lark on mountain wing will soar When Henry's name is heard no more below.

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