Wild Scenes and Song-birds

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George P. Putnam & Company, 1854 - 347 стор.
 

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Сторінка 163 - Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine ; I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Сторінка 37 - Sirens' harmony, That sit upon the nine infolded spheres, And sing to those that hold the vital shears, And turn the adamantine spindle round On which the fate of gods and men is wound. Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie, To lull the daughters of Necessity, And keep unsteady Nature to her law, And the low world in measured motion draw After the heavenly tune, which none can hear Of human mould with gross unpurged ear.
Сторінка 175 - Art thou the Bird whom Man loves best, The pious Bird with the scarlet breast, Our little English Robin; The Bird that comes about our doors When Autumn winds are sobbing?
Сторінка 49 - Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart Though but an atom midst immensity, Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand ! I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth, On the last verge of mortal being stand, Close to the realms where angels have their birth, Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land...
Сторінка 52 - And yet thy benediction passeth not One obscure hiding-place, one little spot Where pleasure may be sent : the nested wren Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken, And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf Takes glimpses of thee ; thou art a relief To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps Within its pearly house.
Сторінка 168 - Olympians, 1 see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swinged censer teeming; Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.
Сторінка 88 - ... dewy morning, while the woods are already vocal with a multitude of warblers, his admirable song rises preeminent over every competitor. The ear can listen to his music alone, to which that of all the others seems a mere accompaniment.
Сторінка 155 - True, I talk of dreams ; Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.
Сторінка 165 - Of favouring heaven: from their enchanted caves Prophetic echoes flung dim melody. On the unapprehensive wild The vine, the corn, the olive mild, Grew savage yet, to human use unreconciled; And, like unfolded flowers beneath the sea, Like the man's thought dark in the infant's brain, Like aught that is which wraps what is to be, Art's deathless dreams lay veiled by many a vein Of Parian stone; and yet a speechless child, Verse murmured, and Philosophy did strain Her lidless eyes for thee; when o'er...
Сторінка 178 - tis not in The harmony of things, — this hard decree, This uneradicable taint of sin, This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew — Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we see, And worse, the woes we see not — which throb through The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new.

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