Mit mondanak mások - Írjon ismertetőt
Nem találtunk ismertetőket a szokott helyeken.
Más kiadások - Összes megtekintése
art not dead beam beneath blest bliss blushing bower Boyle Farm breath bright bright eye brow Canopus charms Cupids dance dark dear dearest dream e'er earth ev'n ev'ry eyes falchion fancy farewell feel fleet flew flowers Fount Freedom's gone Greece Grenada hath hear heart heaven Here's high-born Ladye holy Isle hour hurra isle life's light lips little Admiral look look'd love thee Love's lover lute lyre maid maiden MELEAGER melody mighty Love moon moonlight ne'er night nymphs once pain pass'd rill rose Rose-tree round Sappho scene seem'd shine shone shore sigh sing sleep slumber smile soft song soon sorrow sound Sprite star stood strain sung sunny sweet tears tell thine THOMAS MOORE thou art thou'rt thought Tis the Vine turn'd Twas Twill voice wake weeping wings young youth
98. oldal - A hunter once in a grove reclined, To shun the noon's bright eye, And oft he wooed the wandering wind To cool his brow with its sigh. While mute lay even the wild bee's hum, Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair, ' His song was still, 'Sweet Air, O come!
viii. oldal - It would be a delightful addition to life, if TM had a cottage within two miles of one. We went to the theatre together, and the house being luckily a good one, received TM with rapture. I could have hugged them, for it paid back the debt of the kind reception I met with in Ireland.
xiv. oldal - Then, many a lad I liked is dead, And many a lass grown old ; And as the lesson strikes my head, My weary heart grows cold. But wine, awhile, drives off despair, Nay, bids a hope remain — And that I think sa reason fair To fill my glass again.
251. oldal - SONG OF A HYPERBOREAN. I COME from a land in the sun-bright deep, Where golden gardens grow ; Where the winds of the north, becalm'd in sleep, Their conch-shells never blow.1 Haste to that holy Isle with me.
283. oldal - Mopsa is brown, But her cheek is as smooth as the peach's soft down, And, for blushing, no rose can come near her ; In short, she has woven such nets round my heart, That I ne'er from my dear little Mopsa can part, — Unless I can find one that's dearer. Her voice...
14. oldal - t is in vain — " I cannot weave, as once I wove — " So wilder'd is my heart and brain " With thinking of that youth I love ! " • Again the web she tried to trace, But tears fell o'er each tangled thread ; While, looking in her mother's face, Who watchful o'er her lean'd, she said, "Oh, my sweet Mother — 'tis in vain — " I cannot weave, as once I wove — " So wilder'd is my heart and brain « With thinking of that youth I love...
xv. oldal - How far my own labours in this field — if indeed, the gathering of such idle flowers may be so designated — have helped to advance, or even kept pace with the progressive improvement I have here described, it is not for me to presume to decide. I only know that in a strong and inborn feeling for music lies the source of whatever talent I may have shown for poetical composition ; and that it was the effort to translate into language the emotions and passions which music appeared to rne to express,...
240. oldal - In summer-time at break of morn, And wake us with their busy hum Around the Siha's fragrant thorn. I have a fawn from Aden's land, On leafy buds and berries nurst ; And you shall feed him from your hand Though he may start with fear at first. And I will lead you where he lies For shelter in the noontide heat ; And you may touch his sleeping eyes, And feel his little silv'rv l>ct.
129. oldal - our joyful cry ; While answering back the sounds we hear, " Ship ahoy ! ship ahoy ! what cheer ? what cheer ? " Then sails are back'd, we nearer come, Kind words are said of friends and home ; And soon, too soon, we part with pain, To sail o'er silent seas asrain.
xiii. oldal - It was impossible that the example of Burns, in these, his higher inspirations, should not materially contribute to elevate the character of English song-writing, and even to lead to a re-union of the gifts which it requires, if not, as of old, in the same individual, yet in that perfect sympathy between poet and musician which almost amounts to identity, and of which...