The poetical works of Thomas CampbellT. Y. Crowell, 1882 - 420 стор. |
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appears arms battle beauty beneath bleed blood bosom bound bowers breath bright brow burst Campbell charm chief child cried dark dear death deep delight dream dust earth England ev'n face fair faithful fall fame fate father feel fields fire flower gave Gertrude give green grief hand hath hear heard heart Heaven hills HOPE hour human Indian knew land life's light Lines living lonely look memory mind morn mother mountain Nature Nature's never night o'er once pale peace Pleasures poor pride rocks round sacred scene shade shore sigh sight smile song soul sound speak spirit star storm sweet sword tears tell thee thou thought true truth Twas wave weep wild winds woods young youth
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Сторінка 282 - There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it: I have killed many: I have fully glutted my vengeance: for my country I rejoice at the beams of peace. But do not harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear.
Сторінка 145 - I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter. " And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together ; For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. " His horsemen hard behind us ride ; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride, When they have slain her lover ? " Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, " I'll go, my chief — I'm ready.
Сторінка 153 - TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art — Still seem as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Сторінка 33 - Oh ! bloodiest picture in the book of time, Sarmatia fell — unwept —without a crime! Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe.
Сторінка 131 - For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight. They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ; Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
Сторінка 46 - The world was sad ! — the garden was a wild ! And man, the hermit, sigh'd — till woman smiled...
Сторінка xix - Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, "Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky ? Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near ?— 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue.
Сторінка xxi - Auspicious HOPE ! in thy sweet garden grow Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe ; Won by their sweets, in Nature's languid hour, The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower ; There, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing, What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring ! What viewless forms th' folian organ play, And sweep the furrow'd lines of anxious thought away.
Сторінка 151 - ... my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. Stay, stay with us, — rest, thou art weary and worn...
Сторінка 151 - I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young...