Longer English Poems

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John Wesley Hales
Macmillan and Company, 1884 - Всего страниц: 427

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Стр. 154 - 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 ; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind...
Стр. 103 - Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side. But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; And as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds and led the way.
Стр. 79 - Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply : And many a holy text around she strews That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er...
Стр. 104 - To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven, As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale and midway leaves the storm ; Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, • Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Стр. 21 - Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days ; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life.
Стр. 193 - He has outsoared the shadow of our night; Envy and calumny and hate and pain, And that unrest which men miscall delight, Can touch him not and torture not again...
Стр. 153 - And with new joy and pride The little Actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his "humorous stage...
Стр. 136 - It ceased ; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, — A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.
Стр. 77 - The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
Стр. 152 - mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes...

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