Dramatic sketches, and minor poems

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Página 40 - Ha ! let me see her: — Out, alas ! she's cold ; Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her, like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
Página 105 - They pa';s like spirits of the past, — they speak Like sibyls of the future ; they have power, — The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; They make us what we were not, — what they will, And shake us with the vision that 's gone by, The dread of vanished shadows. — Are they so ? Is not the past all shadow ? What are they ? Creations of the mind ? — The mind can make Substances...
Página 97 - A native grace Sat fair-proportion'd on her polish'd limbs, Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire, Beyond the pomp of dress ; for loveliness' Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most.v Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beauty's self, Recluse amid the close-embowering woods.
Página 79 - The fountains of divine philosophy Fled not his thirsting lips, and all of great, Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past In truth or fable consecrates, he felt And knew.
Página 110 - My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard. Thus fares it still in our decay: And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what age takes away Than what it leaves behind.
Página 40 - Have dawn'da fair and sinless child of sin ; But closed its little being without light, And went down to the grave unborn, wherein Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight ; In vain the dews of Heaven descend above The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love.
Página 137 - Azrael, iS from his deadly quiver When flies that shaft, and fly it must, That parts all else, shall doom for ever Our hearts to undivided dust!
Página 87 - Devotion in the summer breeze — In the sweet murmur of the mountain rill — Tis heard when tempests sweep the lonely hill, And whirlwinds prostrate lay the aged trees. There is devotion in the lark's sweet song, When morning rises from the lap of night ; A thousand insects breathe it from among The summer fields, and garden flow'rets bright. Tis heard when peace reigns o'er the tranquil sea, When the loud waves beat on the rugged shore, — When labour carols on the fertile lea, Or from the wood...

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