Beautiful poetry, selected by the ed. of The Critic, Том 31855 |
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Сторінка 187
... Till ocean stops thy restless tide . To me a pattern wise dispense , Meekly to taste the charms of sense ; Still pressing to my wish'd abode , Nor fix'd till at my centre - God . SONNET . By R. C. TRENCH . WE live not BEAUTIFUL POETRY .
... Till ocean stops thy restless tide . To me a pattern wise dispense , Meekly to taste the charms of sense ; Still pressing to my wish'd abode , Nor fix'd till at my centre - God . SONNET . By R. C. TRENCH . WE live not BEAUTIFUL POETRY .
Сторінка 188
... live , Neglected or unheeded , disappears . Wiser it were to welcome and make ours Whate'er of good , though small , the present brings- Kind greetings , sunshine , song of birds and flowers , With a child's pure delight in little ...
... live , Neglected or unheeded , disappears . Wiser it were to welcome and make ours Whate'er of good , though small , the present brings- Kind greetings , sunshine , song of birds and flowers , With a child's pure delight in little ...
Сторінка 191
... live , beloved , when I was gone , for many a happy day . With trembling hand I vainly tried thy dying eyes to close , And almost envied , in that hour , thy calm and deep repose ; For I was left in loneliness , with pain and grief ...
... live , beloved , when I was gone , for many a happy day . With trembling hand I vainly tried thy dying eyes to close , And almost envied , in that hour , thy calm and deep repose ; For I was left in loneliness , with pain and grief ...
Сторінка 200
... live in song again . THE SPIRIT OF THE FIRESIDE . This is from a well - known book called Queechy , by Miss WETHERELL , an American authoress . By the old hearthstone a spirit dwells , The child of bygone years— He lieth hid , the stone ...
... live in song again . THE SPIRIT OF THE FIRESIDE . This is from a well - known book called Queechy , by Miss WETHERELL , an American authoress . By the old hearthstone a spirit dwells , The child of bygone years— He lieth hid , the stone ...
Сторінка 205
... live on for thee , God will not let me stay . Thou'lt have thy father's eyes , my child - oh ! once how kind they were ! His long black lashes , his own smile , and just such raven hair : But here's a mark - poor innocent - he'll love ...
... live on for thee , God will not let me stay . Thou'lt have thy father's eyes , my child - oh ! once how kind they were ! His long black lashes , his own smile , and just such raven hair : But here's a mark - poor innocent - he'll love ...
Загальні терміни та фрази
Advertisements BARRY CORNWALL BEAUTIFUL POETRY beneath bird blue breast breath bright brow cheek Choice Passages Clerical Journal cloth cloud cold Consisting of Choice creeping everywhere dark death deep doth dream earth EBENEZER ELLIOTT Edited by H. G. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING ESSEX STREET eyes fair flowers Fontenoy gaze golden grave green H. G. ADAMS hath hear heard heart heaven hills Holy Orders hour JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL JOHN CROCKFORD Lady leaves light London Literary Journal lonely look moon morning N. P. WILLIS never night numbers o'er pale Philaster poem poet price 3d rose round S. T. COLERIDGE SACRED SACRED POETS shade shadow sigh silent sing sleep smile soft song sorrow soul spirit spring stars Strand stream sweet tears thee thine things thou art thought trees United Kingdom University Chronicle voice waves weary wild WILLIAM ALLINGHAM wind
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Сторінка 200 - I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles.
Сторінка 198 - She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.
Сторінка 189 - With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies ; How silently ; and with how wan a face ! What ! may it be, that even in heavenly place That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries...
Сторінка 215 - Or the seven stars to light you, Or the polar ray to right you ; But you never may behold Little John or Robin bold ; Never one, of all the clan, Thrumming on an empty can Some old hunting ditty, while He doth his green way beguile To fair Hostess Merriment Down beside the pasture Trent, For he left the merry tale Messenger for spicy ale.
Сторінка 208 - THE sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet; The westland wind is hush and still, The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the" landscape to mine eye Bears those bright hues that once it bore, Though evening with her richest dye Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore. With listless look along the plain I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane Of Melrose rise in ruined pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air, The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree...
Сторінка 194 - Morea's hills the setting sun; not as in northern climes obscurely bright, but one unclouded blaze of living light : o'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws, gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows. On old jEgina's rock and Idra's isle the god of gladness sheds his parting smile; o'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, though there his altars are no more divine.
Сторінка 198 - None like her, none. Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering talk Seem'd her light foot along the garden walk, And shook my heart to think she comes once more But even then I "heard her close the door, The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is gone.
Сторінка 221 - Call for the robin redbreast, and the -wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Сторінка 200 - I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river...
Сторінка 194 - Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun: Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light!