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beautiful birds bless blue born breath bright brown comes dark dead dear death deep dream early earth eyes face fair fall father feel feet flowers friends give gold golden hand happy head hear heart heaven hope hour Ibid John keep kiss land leaves light lips live London look Magazine March meet mind Miss morning mother nature never night o'er once pain pass peace poems poet poetry published rest rose round seems shadows side silence sing sleep smile soft song soul sound spirit spring stand stars summer sweet tears tell thee things thou thought tree true turn verse voice volume wind woman writing York young
Page 251 - By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him.
Page 392 - Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Page 245 - Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife ! To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name.
Page 244 - Some feelings are to mortals given, With less of earth in them than heaven ; And if there be a human tear From passion's dross refined and clear, A tear so limpid and so meek, It would not stain an angel's cheek, 'Tis that which pious fathers shed Upon a duteous daughter's head...
Page 245 - In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me: As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.
Page 382 - ... plump ; a right jolly old elf; And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings ; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle , But I heard him exclaim, ere he...
Page 393 - If music be the food of love, play on ; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again ! it had a dying fall : O ! it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour.
Page 109 - But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made Were quite frightful to see, — Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me ; And he rose with a sigh, And said, " Can this be ? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour," And he went for that heathen Chinee.