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affection appeared beauty born bright called character close clouds dark dear death deep delight died early earth eyes face fair fancy father fear feeling flowers friends give grave green hand happy head hear heard heart heaven hill hope hour Italy John king lady land leaves less light live London look Lord mind Miss morning nature never night o'er once passed passion play poem poet poetical poetry poor published rest rose round says scenes Scott seemed seen side smile song soon soul sound spirit spring stream success sweet taste tears tell thee thing thou thought till true truth turn verse voice volume wandering wild wind woods young youth
Сторінка 275 - I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.
Сторінка 5 - Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. No: — Men, high-minded men, With powers as far above dull brutes endued, In forest, brake, or den, As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude; Men, who their duties know, But know their rights, and knowing, dare maintain, Prevent the long-aimed blow, And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain. These constitute a state; And sovereign Law, that state's collected will, O'er thrones and globes elate Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill...
Сторінка 17 - All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks, That humour interposed too often makes ; All this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age...
Сторінка 295 - Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning ; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning.
Сторінка 259 - He heard it, but he heeded not : his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away ; He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother, — he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday, — All this rushed with his blood.
Сторінка 378 - So the Lord scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth : and they left off to build the city.
Сторінка 137 - Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother: And in the churchyard cottage I Dwell near them with my mother.
Сторінка 283 - I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright.
Сторінка 290 - Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown...
Сторінка 290 - Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod.