The poets of the nineteenth century, Volym 1808

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George Routledge & Co., 1857 - 398 sidor
 

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Sida 170 - Lo !. the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! Ah ! home let him speed — for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast, Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? 'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements...
Sida 135 - Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod.
Sida 116 - The last, the sole, the dearest link Between me and the eternal brink, Which bound me to my failing race, Was broken in this fatal place.
Sida 134 - O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim...
Sida 131 - I sighed for thee ; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turned to his rest Lingering like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried Wouldst thou me...
Sida 165 - Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Sida 176 - Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died, With the gallant good Riou : Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave ; While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave.
Sida 172 - Far flash'd the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 'Tis morn ; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
Sida 160 - O woman ! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made ; When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou...
Sida 20 - Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay, So thou, with sails how swift, hast reached the shore 'Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,' And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchored by thy side.

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