Poetical selections, consisting of the most approved pieces of our best British poets, excellent specimens of fugitive poetry, and some original pieces by Cowper, Darwin, and others
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appear beam beneath blast bloom blow bosom breast breath bright charms cheerful close clouds cold dark dead death deep delight dread fade fair fall fancy fate father fear feel fire flower gale give grave green hand head hear heard heart heaven hill hope hour Lady land leaves light live lonely look maid mark mind moon morning mourn nature never night o'er once pale peace plain poor pride rest rise rock rose round scene seen shade shore side sigh sight silent sleep slow smile soft song soon soul sound spirit spread spring storm stream sweet tear tell thee thine thou thought thro train tree trembling Twas vain vale voice wave wild wind wood youth
第18页 - 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. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave...
第19页 - Like leviathans afloat Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath For a time. But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of oak!
第169页 - Await alike th' inevitable hour : — The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death...
第118页 - I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.' The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, — When, oh ! too strong for human hand The tempest gather'd o'er her.
第20页 - Again ! again ! again ! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back; — Their shots along the deep slowly boom: Then ceased — and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail, Or in conflagration pale Light the gloom.
第16页 - The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave ! — For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave...
第221页 - He threw his blood-stain'd sword, in thunder, down ; And, with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe...
第52页 - Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul; While low delights, succeeding fast behind, In happier meanness occupy the mind : As in those domes, where Caesars once bore sway, Defaced by time and tottering in decay, There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; And, wondering man could want the larger pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.
第48页 - Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee : Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.
第219页 - Adieu !" At length, his transient respite past. His comrades, who before Had heard his voice in every blast, Could catch the sound no more ; For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank. No poet wept him : but the page Of narrative sincere, That tells his name, his worth, his age. Is wet with Anson's tear i And tears by bards or heroes shed, Alike immortalize the dead.