The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival, Volume 1

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Ticknor and Fields, 1863
 

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Page 9 - Deep in the wave is a Coral Grove, Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove, Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine, Far down in the green and glassy brine.
Page 10 - And life in rare and beautiful forms Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, And is safe when the wrathful spirit of storms Has made the top of the waves his own...
Page 328 - The waving verdure rolls along the plain, And the wide forest weaves, To welcome back its playful mates again, A canopy of leaves ; And from its darkening shadow floats A gush of trembling notes. Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May , The tresses of the woods With the light dallying of the west-wind play ; And the full-brimming floods, As gladly to their goal they run, Hail the returning sun.
Page 1 - And mantled with its beauty ; and the walls That close the universe with crystal in, Are eloquent with voices, that proclaim The unseen glories of immensity, In harmonies, too perfect, and too high, For aught but beings of celestial mould, And speak to man in one eternal hymn, Unfading beauty, and unyielding power.
Page 13 - As blows the north wind, heave their foam, And curl around the dashing oar, As late the boatman hies him home. How sweet, at set of sun, to view Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue Float round the distant mountain's side. At midnight hour, as shines the moon, A sheet of silver spreads below, And swift she cuts, at highest noon, Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. On thy fair bosom, silver lake! O! I could ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake,...
Page 361 - IN Eastern lands they talk in flowers, And they tell in a garland their loves and cares ; Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers, On its leaves a mystic language bears.
Page 12 - On thy fair bosom, silver lake, The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, And round his breast the ripples break, As down he bears before the gale.
Page 8 - And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair, But the hectic spot that flushes there, When the tide of life, from its secret dwelling, In a sudden gush, is deeply swelling, And giving a tinge to her icy lips, Like the crimson rose's brightest tips, As richly red, and as transient too, As the clouds, in autumn's sky of blue, That seem like a host of glory met To honour the sun at his golden set...
Page 151 - HAIL to the land whereon we tread, Our fondest boast ; The sepulchre of mighty dead, The truest hearts that ever bled, Who sleep on Glory's brightest bed, A fearless host : No slave is here ; our unchained feet Walk freely as the waves that beat Our coast.
Page 5 - Nor less the swelling of my heart, when high Rose the blue arch of autumn, cloudless, pure As nature, at her dawning, when she sprang Fresh from the hand that wrought her ; where the eye Caught not a speck upon the soft serene, To stain its deep cerulean, but the cloud, That floated, like a lonely spirit, there, White, as the snow of Zemla, or the foam, That on the mid-sea tosses, cinctured round, In easy undulations, with a belt Woven of bright Apollo's golden hair.

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