American Quarterly Review, Том 21

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Robert Walsh
Carey, Lea & Carey, 1837
 

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Стр. 383 - AT midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power ; In dreams, through camp and court, he bore The trophies of a conqueror ; In dreams his song of triumph heard. Then wore his monarch's signet ring, Then pressed that monarch's throne — a King ; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird.
Стр. 5 - Where the great Sun begins his state Robed in flames and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight; While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale.
Стр. 316 - To envelop and contain celestial spirits. Never was such a sudden scholar made ; Never came reformation in a flood, With such a heady...
Стр. 383 - An hour passed on — the Turk awoke — That bright dream was his last; He woke to hear his sentries shriek, " To arms! they come! the Greek ! the Greek...
Стр. 483 - Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, The village master taught his little school...
Стр. 480 - Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye...
Стр. 429 - But the cormorant and the bittern shall possess it ; the owl also and the raven shall dwell in it : and he shall stretch out upon it the line of confusion, and the stones of emptiness.
Стр. 383 - They fought— like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain: They conquered— but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won; Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose. Like flowers at set of sun.
Стр. 469 - Your last letter, I repeat it, was too short ; you should have given me your opinion of the design of the heroi-comical poem which I sent you. You remember I intended to introduce the hero of the poem as lying in a paltry alehouse. You may take the following specimen of the manner, which I flatter myself is quite original. The room in which he lies may be described somewhat...
Стр. 437 - you are too severe. He is only a bur. Tom Davies flung him at Johnson in sport, and he has the faculty of sticking.

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