The book of poetry [ed. by B.G. Johns].James Burns, 1847 - Всего страниц: 186 |
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Стр. 10
... You are old , Father William , " the young man cried , " And pleasures with youth pass away ; And yet you lament not the days that are gone ; Now tell me the reason , I pray . " la LLEWELLYN AND HIS DOG . 11 " In the days.
... You are old , Father William , " the young man cried , " And pleasures with youth pass away ; And yet you lament not the days that are gone ; Now tell me the reason , I pray . " la LLEWELLYN AND HIS DOG . 11 " In the days.
Стр. 16
... little bough , Lone whispering through the bush ! The primrose to the grave is gone ; The hawthorn - flower is dead ; The violet by the moss'd grey stone Hath laid her weary head . THE ARMADA . But thou , wild bramble ! back 16.
... little bough , Lone whispering through the bush ! The primrose to the grave is gone ; The hawthorn - flower is dead ; The violet by the moss'd grey stone Hath laid her weary head . THE ARMADA . But thou , wild bramble ! back 16.
Стр. 38
... gone ! 66 And , " but the booming shots replied , And fast the flames roll'd on . Upon his brow he felt their breath , And in his waving hair , And look'd from that lone post of death In still yet brave despair . And shouted but once ...
... gone ! 66 And , " but the booming shots replied , And fast the flames roll'd on . Upon his brow he felt their breath , And in his waving hair , And look'd from that lone post of death In still yet brave despair . And shouted but once ...
Стр. 43
... 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 . But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring : And we heard the ...
... 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 . But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring : And we heard the ...
Стр. 50
... 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 . THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS . 51 And now when.
... 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 . THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS . 51 And now when.
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ADAM AND EVE beauty behold beneath bowers breast breath bright Caledonia CASABIANCA charms cheerful clouds cried Cumnor Hall dark dead dear death deep doth dreadful E'en earth eyes fair falchion fear fire flowers Gelert gentle glory grave green grove hand hath hear heard heart heaven helmet of Navarre Henry of Navarre hill holy hope HYMN King Henry land light LLEWELLYN lonely look look'd Lord lowly Lycidas Mayenne morn mourn murmur never night o'er pass'd peace pomp praise pray rise round S. T. COLERIDGE secret share shade SHAKSPERE sight silent sing Skiddaw skies sleep smile soft song sorrow soul sound sound of music spirit star stream swain sweet tears tears of thoughtful thee thine things thou art thou hast thought voice wandering wave weep wild wind woods YEAR'S DAY youth
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Стр. 28 - Sweet smiling village ! loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green ! One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain...
Стр. 51 - When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the...
Стр. 156 - I'd rather be A pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
Стр. 133 - All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea. Some lay in dead men's skulls; and, in those holes Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept (As 'twere in scorn of eyes,) reflecting gems, That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep, And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.
Стр. 156 - The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
Стр. 121 - And ye five other wandering fires, that move In mystic dance not without song, resound His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light. Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Стр. 118 - Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, — The seasons' difference : as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say, This is no flattery : these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Стр. 116 - Where some, like magistrates correct at home, Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad, Others, like soldiers, armed in. their stings, Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds, Which pillage they with merry march bring home To the tent-royal of their emperor...
Стр. 34 - 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. 104 - Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. Await alike the' inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.