Records of Woman, and Other Poems

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Blackwood, 1850 - 270 oldal
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143. oldal - Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame; Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear; They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free. The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white waves' foam; And the rocking pines of the forest roared—...
192. oldal - HAIL to thee, blithe spirit ! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
135. oldal - We roll In light and power on high ; But, of the never-dying soul, Ask that which cannot die.
164. oldal - O'er each fair sleeping brow ; She had each folded flower in sight, — Where are those dreamers now ? One, 'midst the forests of the West, By a dark stream is laid, — The Indian knows his place of rest, Far in the cedar shade. The sea, the blue, lone sea, hath one, He lies where pearls lie deep, — He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep.
96. oldal - Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves ; And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves.
142. oldal - And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted came, Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame...
163. oldal - THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. THEY grew in beauty side by side. They filled one home with glee ; Their graves are severed far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea.
164. oldal - ... O'er his low bed may weep. One sleeps where southern vines are drest Above the noble slain : He wrapt his colours round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain. And one — o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fanned ; She faded midst Italian flowers — The last of that bright band. And parted thus they rest, who played Beneath the same green tree ; Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent knee...
134. oldal - And what have ye found in the monarch's dome, Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam ?— " We have found a change, we have found a pall, And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall, And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt— Nought looks the same, save the nest we built!
159. oldal - Rome, Rome ! thou art no more As thou hast been ! Rome ! thine imperial brow Never shall rise : What hast thou left thee now ? — Thou hast thy skies ! Blue, deeply blue, they are.

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