the poems of winthrop mackworth praed

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Page 148 - She smiled on many just for fun — I knew that there was nothing in it ; I was the first, the only one Her heart had thought of for a minute ; I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand, and oh ! How sweetly all her notes were folded ! Our love was like most other loves — A little glow, a little shiver ; A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And
Page 196 - 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 'No!
Page 146 - 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 226 - And striking for the pocket; Now feasting on a cheese and flitch, — Now drinking from the pewter; Now leaping over Chalvey ditch, Now laughing at my tutor. Where are my friends? I am alone; No playmate shares my beaker : Some lie beneath the churchyard stone, And some — before the Speaker...
Page 420 - Fling high the flambeau's light ; And sing the hymn for a parted soul, Beneath the silent night ! The wreath upon his head, The cross upon his breast, Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed : So — take him to his rest ! Call ye my Whole...
Page 97 - 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 146 - Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them to the Sunday Journal.
Page 195 - Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion, Taught us both how to sing and to speak, And we loved one another with passion, Before we had been there a week: You gave me a ring for a token; I wear it wherever I go; I gave you a chain, — is -it broken? My own Araminta, say
Page 137 - 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 404 - But still the lady shook her head, And swore by yea and nay, My whole was all that he had said, And all that he could say.

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