The poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed, with a memoir by D. Coleridge, Volume 2

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Page 138 - Heaven, her dancing ! Dark was her hair, her hand was white ; Her voice was exquisitely tender ; Her eyes were full of liquid light ; I never saw a waist so slender ! Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows ; I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, And wondered where she'd left her sparrows.
Page 128 - winsome marrow;" The lady laid her knitting down, Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow : Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner, He found a stable for his steed, And welcome for himself, and dinner. If, when he reached his...
Page 92 - There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay: Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
Page 84 - Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated...
Page 199 - I've thought of you more than I'll say ; Indeed, I was half broken-hearted For a week, when they took you away. Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers Our walks on the Ness and the Den, And echoed the musical numbers Which you used to sing to me then. I know the romance, since it's over, 'Twere idle, or worse, to recall ; — I know you're a terrible rover ; But, Clarence, you'll come to our Ball...
Page 202 - You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball. But out on the World ! from the flowers It shuts out the sunshine of truth : It blights the green leaves in the bowers, It makes an old age of our youth ; And the flow of our feeling, once in it, Like a streamlet beginning to freeze, Though it cannot turn ice in a minute, Grows harder by sudden degrees : Time treads o'er the graves of affection ; Sweet honey is turned into gall ; Perhaps you have no recollection That ever you danced at our Ball...
Page 193 - Has hurried me off to the Po, Forget not Medora Trevilian : My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' " We parted ! but sympathy's fetters Reach far over valley and hill ; I muse o'er your exquisite letters, And feel that your heart is mine still ; And he who would share it with me, love, The richest of treasures below, — If he's not what Orlando should be, love, My own Araminta, say
Page 127 - SOME years ago, ere time and taste Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, And roads as little known as scurvy, The man who lost his way, between St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, Was always shown across the green, And guided to the Parson's wicket. Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ; Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveller up the path, Through...
Page 135 - Some heard he had been crossed in love, Before he came away from college — Some darkly hinted that his Grace Did nothing, great or small, without him ; Some whispered, with a solemn face, That there was something odd about him!
Page 371 - I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I REMEMBER — I remember How my childhood fleeted by,— The mirth of its December, And the warmth of its July ; On my brow, love — on my brow, love, There are no signs of care ; But my pleasures are not now, love, What Childhood's pleasures were.

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