Life and Letters of Louis Moreau GottschalkOliver Ditson, 1870 - 213 頁 |
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adagio admiration American amusing arpeggios artist audience Bamboula Bananier beautiful Beethoven Boston Brignoli brilliant brother child Chopin chord compositions concert concert-room Criollos criticism dear dreams exquisite eyes F. G. HILL fantasia feel flash gave genius give Gotts grand hand happy harmony Havana hear heard heart Hector Berlioz inspired intellectual Irving Hall kind knew lady Last Hope laugh letter listen look Louis Gottschalk Louis Moreau Gottschalk Madame Marche medal melody ment mind Montevideo Moonlight Sonata murmur musician nature never night noble nom de plume octaves once orchestra Paris Paris Conservatoire passionate pianist piano played poetic poor pupil received render replied returned savanna seemed sister smile society Sonata song sorrow soul sound Spanish speak spirit sweet sympathy symphonies talent tears tell thee thing thought thrill tion told tone tropical true truth voice weary words York young
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第 17 頁 - And there shall in no wise enter into it any thing that defileth, neither whatsoever worketh abomination, or maketh a lie : but they which are written in the Lamb's book of life.
第 136 頁 - And inasmuch as ye have done it to one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me...
第 21 頁 - ... seemed the harmonious echo From our discordant life. It linked all perplexed meanings Into one perfect peace, And trembled away into silence As if it were loth to cease. I have sought, but I seek it vainly, That one lost chord divine, Which came from the soul of the Organ, And entered into mine.
第 161 頁 - Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not: Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr!
第 157 頁 - ... fall, and miss Thee so Who art not missed by any that entreat. Speak to me as to Mary at Thy feet ! And if no precious gums my hands bestow, Let my tears drop like amber while I go In reach of Thy divinest voice complete In humanest affection — thus, in sooth, To lose the sense of losing. As a child, Whose song-bird seeks the wood for evermore, Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled, He sleeps the faster that he wept before.
第 35 頁 - All my life long, I have beheld with most respect the man Who knew himself, and knew the ways before him, And from amongst them chose considerately, With a clear foresight, not a blindfold courage ; And having chosen, with a steadfast mind Pursued his purposes.
第 150 頁 - Nor named thee but to praise. Tears fell when thou wert dying, From eyes unused to weep, And long, where thou art lying, Will tears the cold turf steep. When hearts, whose truth was proven, Like thine, are laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven To tell the world their worth...
第 35 頁 - I go to prove my soul! I see my way as birds their trackless way. I shall arrive ! what time, what circuit first, I ask not: but unless God send his hail Or blinding fireballs, sleet or stifling snow, In some time, his good time, I shall arrive: He guides me and the bird. In his good time!
第 150 頁 - ... thou art lying, Will tears the cold turf steep. When hearts, whose truth was proven, Like thine, are laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven To tell the world their worth. And I, who woke each morrow To clasp thy hand in mine, Who shared thy joy and sorrow, Whose weal and woe were thine : It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow, But I've in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now.
第 150 頁 - ... wreath be woven To tell the world their worth. And I, who woke each morrow To clasp thy hand in mine, Who shared thy joy and sorrow, Whose weal and woe were thine: It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow, But I've in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now. While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee.