A Study of Versification

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Houghton Mifflin, 1911 - English language - 275 pages

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Page 133 - that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple Tyrant ; that from these may grow A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
Page 86 - throne, Biirn'd on the water: the poop was beaten gold; Purple the sails, and so perfumed that The winds were love-sick with them ; the oars were silver, Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water which they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes.
Page 222 - Duke of Buckingham : — A man so various, that he seemed to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome : Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong ; Was everything by starts, and nothing long ; But, in the course of one revolving moon, Was chemist, tiddler, statesman, and buffoon : Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, Besides ten thousand freaks that
Page 108 - : — Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord : He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored ; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword : His truth is marching on. In this
Page 85 - And ever, against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse, Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out With wanton heed and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden Soul of Harmony. The
Page 73 - *T is not enough no harshness gives offence, The sound must seem an echo to the sense. Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows ; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar ; When Ajax strives some rock's vast might to throw,
Page 120 - On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; And through the field the road runs by To many-towered Camelot ; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Bound an island there below, The island of Shalott.
Page 183 - stanza : — Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.
Page 230 - beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sate by his fire, and talked the night away ; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. The
Page 93 - 1 And may there be no sadness of farewell, . When I embark ; For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar.

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