English Narrative Poems

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Claude Moore Fuess, Henry Nichols Sanborn
Macmillan, 1911 - Narrative poetry, English - 286 pages
 

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Page 20 - One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; They'll have fleet steeds that follow,
Page 86 - THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Page 161 - And the muttering grew to a grumbling ; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling : And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Page 87 - And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord...
Page 155 - Aix," — for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
Page 39 - On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow ; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.
Page 43 - We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow...
Page 2 - To-morrow is our wedding-day, And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton All in a chaise and pair. My sister, and my sister's child, Myself and children three, Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride On horseback after we.
Page 44 - Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.
Page 43 - NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

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