The Poets of America, Volym 2John Keese S. Colman, 1842 - 326 sidor |
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Sida 14
... And the monarch's feast to share . What ho , what ho , the goblet ! It hath held the holy wine ; And prophets of old Have blessed the gold , And the gods have made it mine : FALL OF BABYLON . Then fill to the foaming brim.
... And the monarch's feast to share . What ho , what ho , the goblet ! It hath held the holy wine ; And prophets of old Have blessed the gold , And the gods have made it mine : FALL OF BABYLON . Then fill to the foaming brim.
Sida 39
... holy , And spell of quick'ning melancholy , Thy soul from sublunary folly First raised to worlds above . What though be mine the treasures fair Of purple grape and yellow pear , D * 40 THE SYLPH OF AUTUMN . And fruits of various ...
... holy , And spell of quick'ning melancholy , Thy soul from sublunary folly First raised to worlds above . What though be mine the treasures fair Of purple grape and yellow pear , D * 40 THE SYLPH OF AUTUMN . And fruits of various ...
Sida 46
... , My frequent visions , favourite ground ! shall backward glance to thee ; The holy dead , the bygone hours , the precepts early given , Shall sweetly soothe and influence my homeward way to heaven . TO A SISTER . BY EDWARD EVERETT . YES ,
... , My frequent visions , favourite ground ! shall backward glance to thee ; The holy dead , the bygone hours , the precepts early given , Shall sweetly soothe and influence my homeward way to heaven . TO A SISTER . BY EDWARD EVERETT . YES ,
Sida 88
... holy spot ! ' Tis the high place of Freedom's birth ! God of our fathers ! is it not The holiest spot of all the earth ? Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side ; The robber roams o'er Sinai now ; And those old men , thy seers , abide No ...
... holy spot ! ' Tis the high place of Freedom's birth ! God of our fathers ! is it not The holiest spot of all the earth ? Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side ; The robber roams o'er Sinai now ; And those old men , thy seers , abide No ...
Sida 89
John Keese. ODE . Here sleeps their dust ; ' tis holy ground ; And we , the children of the brave , From the four winds are gathered round , To lay our offering on their grave . Free as the winds around us blow , Free as the waves below ...
John Keese. ODE . Here sleeps their dust ; ' tis holy ground ; And we , the children of the brave , From the four winds are gathered round , To lay our offering on their grave . Free as the winds around us blow , Free as the waves below ...
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The Poets of America: Illustrated by One of Her Painters - Primary Source ... John Keese Ingen förhandsgranskning - 2013 |
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ALBERT PIKE APRIL SHOWER autumn beam beauty beneath beneath the sky bird bless blest bloom blossoms bower breast breath bright brow CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN chimes clouds dark deep dost dreams earth eternal FELICIA HEMANS FITZ-GREENE HALLECK flashed flowers FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD friends gale gaze gentle gleam glorious glory grave green HADAD HAMPTON BEACH hath hear heart heaven hills holy hour hues hushed leaves life's light lingers lone look melody morning mother mountain mournful murmur neath night NORTH BURIAL GROUND o'er rest rock rolled round SEBA SMITH shade shadows shine shore sing skies sleep slumbers smile soft song soul sound spirit spring stars stream summer sweet swells tears tempest thee thine Thou art thoughts throng tree trembling twilight URSA MAJOR vale voice Washington Allston waves weary wild winds wings woods youthful
Populära avsnitt
Sida 37 - It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling, - rejoicing, - sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin. Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.
Sida 35 - And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing floor.
Sida 97 - ... heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul. Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, In Fancy's misty light, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Portentous through the night. Upon its midnight battle-ground The spectral camp is seen, And with a sorrowful, deep sound, Flows the River of Life between. No other voice, nor sound is there, In the army of the grave ; No other challenge breaks the air, But the rushing of Life's wave.
Sida 35 - Week in. week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low.
Sida 162 - And hung his bow upon thy awful front, And spoke in that loud voice which seemed to him Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake The "sound of many waters," and had bade Thy flood to chronicle the ages back And notch his centuries in the eternal rocks.
Sida 283 - The bell's deep tones are swelling; 'tis the knell Of the departed year. No funeral train Is sweeping past, yet, on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest, Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud...
Sida 35 - His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.
Sida 20 - A sister to the night !— Sleep not ! — thine image wakes for aye Within my watching breast: Sleep not! — from her soft sleep should fly, Who robs all hearts of rest. Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break, And make this darkness gay With looks, whose brightness well might make Of...
Sida 285 - He presses, and forever. The proud bird, The condor of the Andes, that can soar Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of the northern hurricane, And...
Sida 196 - I love ye — chimes of Motherland, With all this soul of mine, And bless the Lord that I am sprung Of good old English line : And like a son I sing the lay That England's glory tells; For she is lovely to the Lord, For you, ye Christian bells...
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