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Сторінка 190 - But above the cross there glistened A golden Coronet. For her the obsequious beadle The inner door flung wide; Lightly, as up a ball-room, Her footsteps seemed to glide,— There might be good thoughts in her, For all her evil pride. But after her a woman Peeped wistfully within, On whose wan face was graven Life's hardest...
Сторінка 93 - Not in the rude compiler's painted shell, But in thine own memorials of live stone, And in the pictures of thy kneeling princes, And in the lofty words on lofty tombs, And in the breath of ancient chroniclers, And in the music of the outer sea.
Сторінка 60 - Or may I woo thee In earlier Sicilian ? or thy smiles Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles, By bards who died content on pleasant sward, Leaving great verse unto a little clan ? O, give me their old vigour, and unheard Save of the quiet Primrose, and the span Of heaven and few ears, Rounded by thee, my song should die away Content as theirs, Rich in the simple worship of a day.
Сторінка 99 - I looked, and saw between us and the sun A building on an island, such a one As age to age might add, for uses vile, — A windowless, deformed, and dreary pile ; And on the top an open tower, where hung A bell, which in the radiance swayed and swung...
Сторінка 133 - FIRST ILLUMINATION. TEMPLE ! where Time has wed Eternity, How beautiful Thou art, beyond compare, Now emptied of thy massive majesty, And made so faery-frail, so faery-fair : The lineaments that thou art wont to wear Augustly traced in ponderous masonry, Lie faint as in a woof of filmy air, Within their frames of mellow jewelry. — But yet how sweet the...
Сторінка 174 - That nobler type is realised again In perfect form, and dedicate — to whom ? To a poor Syrian girl, of lowliest name, A hapless creature, pitiful and frail As ever wore her life in sin and shame, — Of whom all histo'ry has this single tale, — " She loved the Christ, she wept beside his grave, And He, for that Love's sake, all else forgave.
Сторінка 137 - Thou the plain utter' ance of a Poet's thought, Thyself at heart a Poet, wilt not scorn : The name, into whose splendour thou wert born, Thou art about to change for that which stands Writ on the proudest work * that mortal hands Have raised from earth, Religion to adorn. Take it rejoicing, — take with thee thy dower, Britain's best blood, and Beauty ever new, Being of mind ; may the cool northern dew Still rest upon thy leaves, transplanted flower ! Mingling thy English nature, pure and true,...
Сторінка 188 - Yet lay he to the sacred wall As close as he was able; The blessed crumbs might almost fall Upon him from God's table. Who was this father of the Church So secret in his glory? In vain might antiquarians...
Сторінка 118 - Something has told me, something in my breast here, Which I am sure is true, that if you keep it, If you will let no other take it from you, Terrible things I cannot bear to think of Must fall upon you. Show me that you love me : Am I not here to be your little servant, Follow your steps, and wait upon your wishes ? " But Christ refuses to yield the terrible plaything, and claims his privilege to be the elder
Сторінка 11 - It is an isle under Ionian skies, Beautiful as a wreck of Paradise, And, for the harbours are not safe and good, This land would have remained a solitude But for some pastoral people native there, Who from the Elysian, clear, and golden air Draw the last spirit of the age of gold, Simple and spirited ; innocent and bold. The blue...

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