Poetry and Pictures from Thomas Moore

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Longman, Brown, Green, 1858 - 336 oldal
 

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227. oldal - And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night : Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles — Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, Some kind voice had murmur'd,
16. oldal - Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds; His path was rugged and sore, Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds, And man never trod before...
298. oldal - Alas ! — how light a cause may move Dissension between hearts that love ! Hearts that the world in vain had tried, And sorrow but more closely tied ; That stood the storm, when waves were rough, Yet in a sunny hour fall off, Like ships that have gone down at sea. When heaven was all tranquillity...
15. oldal - Virtue ! when thy clime I seek, Let not my spirit's flight be weak : Let me not, like this feeble thing, With brine still dropping from its wing, Just sparkle in the solar glow And plunge again to depths below. But, when I leave the grosser throng With whom my soul hath dwelt so long, Let me, in that aspiring day, Cast every lingering stain away, And, panting for thy purer air, Fly up at once and fix me there.
55. oldal - That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee stilL Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine ! Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till...
50. oldal - THE minstrel boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you'll find him ; His father's sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him. " Land of song !" said the warrior-bard, " Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee...
116. oldal - THOU who dry'st the mourner's tear, How dark this world would be, If, when deceived and wounded here, We could not fly to Thee ? The friends who in our sunshine live, When winter comes, are flown ; And he who has but tears to give, Must weep those tears alone.
138. oldal - Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord ! His word was our arrow, His breath was our sword. Who shall return to tell Egypt the story Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride ? For the Lord hath looked out from His pillar of glory, And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! Jehovah hath triumphed, — His people are free ! THOMAS MOORE.
53. oldal - twas leaving. So loth we part from all we love, From all the links that bind us ; So turn our hearts, as on we rove, To those we've left behind us...
307. oldal - When first on me they breathed and shone ; New, as if brought from other spheres, Yet welcome as if loved for years. Then fly with me, — if thou hast known No other flame, nor falsely thrown A gem away, that thou hadst sworn Should ever in thy heart be worn. Come, if the love thou hast for me, Is pure and fresh as mine for thee, — Fresh as the fountain under ground, When first 't is by the lapwing found.

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