The Rover, Том 3Labree, Dean & Company, 1844 |
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Aarburg Agatha American Amy Lane appeared ARTHUR MORRELL beautiful better Blonay bosom breath brig brow called captain dark dear death deck deep door dream earth ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH England exclaimed eyes face father feel fire flowers gaze gentle girl give hand happy head heard heart heaven honor hope horse hour husband lady land light Lille lips live look lugger marriage Mary Mary Howitt ment mind Miss Wormwood morning Native American never night o'er once passed poor racter replied Rookley round Rover sail Savern schooner SEBA SMITH seemed Serapis ship side sleep Slingerland smile soon soul spirit stood stranger sweet tell thee thing thou thought tion told took tree turned voice wife wild wind wish words young Zuleika
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Сторінка 261 - For a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love.
Сторінка 152 - It sounds to him like her mother's voice Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.
Сторінка 323 - Hyperion's curls: the front of Jove himself: An eye like Mars, to threaten and command: A station like the herald Mercury New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill : A combination and a form indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal To give the world assurance of a man.
Сторінка 152 - Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close ; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought ; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought ! ENDYMION.
Сторінка 205 - WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered, To a holy, calm delight ; Ere the evening lamps are lighted, And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful fire-light Dance upon the parlor wall ; Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door ; The beloved, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more...
Сторінка 205 - And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies.
Сторінка 171 - Oh, God ! that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now awake ! Again — again, with dizzy brain, The human life I take ; And my red right hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake. "And still no peace for the restless clay, Will wave or mould allow ; The horrid thing pursues my soul, — It stands before me now ! " The fearful boy look'd up, and saw Huge drops upon his brow.
Сторінка 143 - To be no more. Sad cure! for who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated Night, Devoid of sense and motion?
Сторінка 169 - The usher took six hasty strides, As smit with sudden pain; Six hasty strides beyond the place, Then slowly back again: And down he sat beside the lad, And talked with him of Cain; And long since then, of bloody men, Whose deeds tradition saves; Of lonely folk cut off unseen, And hid in sudden graves; Of horrid stabs in groves forlorn, And murders done in caves...
Сторінка 152 - The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands ; . And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow ; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When...