The Native Poets of Maine, Utgåva 288D. Bugbee & Company, 1854 - 312 sidor |
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... dear sound . Come , let me strike thy chords once more , And , while my fingers o'er them roam , Return the strain beloved of yore , And murmur , Harp , of Home . Yes , this is Home ! its tasseled pines , Its rugged hills , its short ...
... dear sound . Come , let me strike thy chords once more , And , while my fingers o'er them roam , Return the strain beloved of yore , And murmur , Harp , of Home . Yes , this is Home ! its tasseled pines , Its rugged hills , its short ...
Sida 10
... dear Hypolito , That could we , by some spell of magic , change The world and its inhabitants to stone , In the same attitudes they now are in , What fearful glances downward might we cast Into the hollow chasms of human life ! What ...
... dear Hypolito , That could we , by some spell of magic , change The world and its inhabitants to stone , In the same attitudes they now are in , What fearful glances downward might we cast Into the hollow chasms of human life ! What ...
Sida 11
S. Herbert Lancey. VICTORIAN . I will forget her ! All dear recollections . Pressed in my heart like flowers within a book , Shall be torn out , and scattered to the winds ! I will forget her ! But perhaps hereafter , When she shall ...
S. Herbert Lancey. VICTORIAN . I will forget her ! All dear recollections . Pressed in my heart like flowers within a book , Shall be torn out , and scattered to the winds ! I will forget her ! But perhaps hereafter , When she shall ...
Sida 41
... dear mother ! the feeling nurst As I hung at thy bosom , clung round thee first . " Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain ; ' Tis the only one that will long remain ; And as , year by year , and day by day , Some friend still ...
... dear mother ! the feeling nurst As I hung at thy bosom , clung round thee first . " Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain ; ' Tis the only one that will long remain ; And as , year by year , and day by day , Some friend still ...
Sida 59
... dear Is that strange sound to me ; Dear is the memory It brings my soul of many a parted year . Again , yet once again , O minstrel of the main ! Lo ! festal face and form familiar throng Unto my waking eye ; And voices of the sky Sing ...
... dear Is that strange sound to me ; Dear is the memory It brings my soul of many a parted year . Again , yet once again , O minstrel of the main ! Lo ! festal face and form familiar throng Unto my waking eye ; And voices of the sky Sing ...
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amid Bangor Battle of Niagara beautiful beneath birds bless bloom born Boston Bowdoin College breast breath bright brow cheek clouds cold dark dead death deep dream earth echo EDWARD PAYSON WESTON ELIJAH PARISH LOVEJOY ELIZABETH OAKES PRINCE Farewell feel flowers gaze gentle glory gone grave green hast hath hear heart heaven HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW hope hour hymn HYPOLITO Ianthe Idlewild immortal life's light lingering lips literary lone Longfellow look Mellen MELVILLE WESTON FULLER morning mournful native never New-York night o'er pass'd poems poet poetry Portland Portland Tribune prayer Prentiss Mellen published round Seba Smith shadows shine shore sigh sing skies sleep smile song sorrow soul sound spirit star storm stream summer sweet talent tears tell thine Thou art thought of thee tree Twas voice wave weary weep wild wind wing youth
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Sida 22 - THERE is no flock, however watched and tended But one dead lamb is there ! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair ! The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead ; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted...
Sida 22 - There is no Death ! What seems so is transition. This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian Whose portal we call Death. She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ Himself doth rule.
Sida 14 - Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! — For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
Sida 16 - 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. 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 28 - THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains, and the wind is never weary ; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.
Sida 2 - Tis of the wave and not the rock; 'Tis but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale ! In spite of rock and tempest's roar, In spite of false lights on the shore. Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee.
Sida 18 - I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague. Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead.
Sida 26 - ... Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air Excelsior ! A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half-buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device Excelsior ! There in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior ! POEMS ON SLAVERY.
Sida 25 - THE shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior ! His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior!
Sida 20 - ALL houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, With feet that make no sound upon the floors. We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, Along the passages they come and go, Impalpable impressions on the air, A sense of something moving to and fro. There are more guests at table than the hosts Invited ; the illuminated hall Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, As silent as the pictures on the wall.