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The Literary Bouquet, Gathered from Favourite Authors
Pré-visualização indisponível - 2016
appear Assyria Auld Beggar auld lang syne beauty better blue breath bright brought Brutus Cæsar carried cold dark dead dear death deep delight dream early earth ERIN eyes fair faithful fall fear feel flowers foot friends give golden grave green hand happy hath head hear heart heaven honourable hope hour kind kiss leaves light lived look lovers meet morning nature never night noble o'er ocean once poor present remember rest rise river rolled scene seemed shining side sight silent silver sleep smile soon sorrow soul speak spirit stars stood sure sweet tears tell tender thee things thou thought told took watch waves wild wings winter wish woman wounded young
Página 149 - What thou art we know not; What is most like thee ? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not...
Página 150 - What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain ? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Página 88 - I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I REMEMBER, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn ; He never came a wink too soon. Nor brought too long a day ; But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away ! I remember, I remember...
Página 40 - There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar...
Página 92 - She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers around her are sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying. She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking — Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!
Página 87 - I tell you that which you yourselves do know; Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits and put a tongue In every wound of Caesar that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
Página 82 - I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? \ Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious; And, sure, he is an honourable man.
Página 43 - His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields Are not a spoil for him — thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay.
Página 114 - Our lives are rivers, gliding free To that unfathomed, boundless sea, The silent grave ! Thither all earthly pomp and boast Roll, to be swallowed up and lost In one dark wave. Thither the mighty torrents stray, Thither the brook pursues its way, And tinkling rill. There all are equal. Side by side The poor man and the son of pride Lie calm and still.