Poems and Essays, Том 1

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Сторінка 359 - Revenge, retaliation, atonement, are pernicious mistakes. If Beatrice had thought in this manner, she would have been wiser and better ; but she would never have been a tragic character : the few whom such an exhibition would have interested, could never have been sufficiently interested for a dramatic purpose, from the want of finding sympathy in their interest among the mass who surround them.
Сторінка lxxxix - ONE only Way to Life ; One Faith, delivered once for all ; One holy Band, endowed with Heaven's high call ; One earnest, endless Strife ; — This is the Church th' Eternal framed of old. Smooth open ways, good store ; A Creed for every clime and age, By Mammon's touch new moulded o'er and o'er ; No cross, no war to wage ; — This is the Church our earth-dimmed eyes behold.
Сторінка 77 - Angels' wings. FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER. IKE a musician that with flying finger Startles the voice of some new instrument, And, though he know that in one string are blent All its extremes of sound, yet still doth linger Among the lighter threads, fearing to start The deep soul of that one melodious wire, Lest it, unanswering, dash his high desire, And spoil the hopes of his expectant heart ; — Thus, with my mistress oft conversing, I Stir every lighter theme with careless voice, Gathering sweet...
Сторінка 99 - Gleam tremblingly ; serene and heavenly fair, The eastern hanging crescent climbeth higher. See, purple on the azure softly steals, And Morning, faintly touched with quivering fire, Leans on the frosty summits of the hills, Like a young girl over her hoary sire. Oh, such a dawning over me has come, — The daybreak of thy purity and love ; — The sadness of the never-satiate tomb Thy countenance hath power to remove ; And from the sepulchre of Hope thy palm Can roll the stone, and raise her bright...
Сторінка 81 - FAIR unto all men, shining Morning, seems Thy face serene when a new day unrolls, And all old sights and long-endured doles Seem fresh and bearable in thy bright beams. But only to the dreamers of sweet dreams, The visionary apprehensive souls Whose finer insight no dim sense controls, Com'st thou in this fair shape o'er Ocean's streams, Thy white foot hanging on an eastern wave, And thy swept garments blown by early air; In thy two hands rich urns, powerful to save From darkness and the terror of...
Сторінка 357 - Clasped on his oar, strives trembling to reclaim Some loved lost echo from the fleeting strand, So lean I back to the poetic land ; And in my heart a sound, a voice, a name Hangs, as above the lamp hangs the expiring flame.
Сторінка 100 - At a window a child's mouth smiling, Overhung with tearful eyes At the flying rainy landscape And the sudden opening skies. Angels hanging from heaven, A whisper in dying ears, And the promise of great salvation Shining on mortal fears. A dying man on his pillow, Whose white soul, fled to his face, Puts on her garment of joyfulness, And stretches to Death's embrace. Passion, rapture, and blindness, Yearning, aching, and fears, And Faith and Duty gazing With steadfast eyes upon tears. I see, or the...
Сторінка 357 - CCCCXL *T*HE bubble of the silver-springing waves, Castalian music, and that flattering sound, Low rustling of the loved Apollian leaves, With which my youthful hair was to be crowned, Grow dimmer in my ears ; while Beauty grieves Over her votary, less frequent found ; And, not untouched by storms, my life-boat heaves Through the splashed ocean-waters, outward bound. And as the leaning mariner, his hand Clasped on his ear, strives trembling to reclaim Some loved lost echo from the fleeting strand,...
Сторінка 49 - COME, my beauty, come, my bird ; We two will wander, and no third Shall mar that sweetest solitude Of a garden and a child, When the fresh elms are first in bud, And western winds blow mild. Clasp that short-reaching arm about a neck Stript of a deeper love's more close embrace, And with the softness of thy baby-cheek Press roses on a care-distained face.
Сторінка 334 - Heaven, thy great designs, No, nor abate my faith a single jot. Why, this is mercy ; do I cavil at it ? She is in heaven by this, where angels flatter her, And soothe her with white hands ; I would not have her Alive for all the world. Oh, she is dead ! Her beauty was the rapture of my eye, And her affection was the corner-stone Of all my reared existence. That was long ago ; Chaste marriage-joys, the faces of young children, And all the sweet felicities of home— These are old dreams, and long...

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