A Collection of Poems: Chiefly Manuscript, and from Living Authors

Joanna Baillie
Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, 1823 - 330 páginas

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Página 44 - And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High Have told, why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky.
Página 44 - O'er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child, To bless the bow of God. Methinks thy jubilee to keep, The first-made anthem rang, On earth deliver'd from the deep, And the first poet sang. Nor ever shall the Muse's eye, Unraptur'd greet thy beam; Theme of primeval prophecy, Be still the poet's theme.
Página 282 - And falling and brawling and sprawling, And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding...
Página 43 - When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud philosophy To teach me what thou art...
Página 186 - To thy protecting shade she runs, Thy tender buds supply her food; Her young forsake her downy plumes To rest upon thy opening blooms. Flower of the desert though thou art! The deer that range the mountain free, The graceful doe, the stately hart, Their food and shelter seek from thee; The bee thy earliest blossom greets, And draws from thee her choicest sweets.
Página 282 - And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping.
Página 71 - Twas muttered in Hell, And echo caught faintly The sound as it fell. On the confines of earth 'Twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean Its presence confessed.
Página 282 - And hitting and splitting, And shining and twining, And rattling and battling, And shaking and quaking, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And tossing and crossing, And flowing and...
Página 71 - Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home. In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned.
Página 165 - First call'd thee his, or squire or hind ? For thou in every wight that passes Dost now a friendly playmate find. Thy downcast glances, — grave, but cunning, As fringed eyelids rise and fall ; Thy shyness swiftly from me running, — 'Tis infantine coquetry all...

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