The provincialist: tales, essays and stanzas

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Сторінка 170 - Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains ; They crown'd him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.
Сторінка 174 - And still her feet, no less than the sweet tune To which they moved, seemed as they moved to blot The thoughts of him who gazed on them; and soon "All that was, seemed as if it had been not; And all the gazer's mind was strewn beneath Her feet like embers; and she, thought by thought, "Trampled its sparks into the dust of death...
Сторінка 176 - How wonderful is Death, Death and his brother Sleep ! One, pale as yonder waning moon With lips of lurid blue ! The other, rosy as the morn When throned on ocean's wave It blushes o'er the world: Yet both so passing wonderful...
Сторінка 168 - And the spring arose on the garden fair, Like the spirit of love felt everywhere; And each flower and herb on earth's dark breast Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. But none ever trembled and panted with bliss In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, Like a doe in the noontide with love's...
Сторінка 169 - By the fierce blast's unconquerable stress. Over each other crack and crash they all In terrible and intertangled fall ; And through the ruins of the shaken mountain The airs hiss and howl. It is not the voice of the fountain, Nor the wolf in his midnight prowl.
Сторінка 167 - SPRING. AGAIN the violet of our early days Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun, And kindles into fragrance at his blaze ; The streams, rejoiced that winter's work is done, Talk of to-morrow's cowslips, as they run. Wild apple, thou art...
Сторінка 176 - Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour ! The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower. Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer.
Сторінка 173 - Amid the sun, — as he amid the blaze Of his own glory, on the vibrating Floor of the fountain paved with flashing rays, — " A Shape all light, which with one hand did fling Dew on the earth, as if she were the dawn, And the invisible rain did ever sing » " A silver music on the mossy lawn...
Сторінка 173 - Of the deep cavern, and with palms so tender, Their tread broke not the mirror of its billow, Glided along the river, and did bend her Head under the dark boughs, till like a willow, Her fair hair swept the bosom of the stream That whispered with delight to be its pillow.
Сторінка 158 - race is not always to the swift, or the battle to the strong.

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