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Page 177 - The intelligible forms of ancient poets, The fair humanities of old religion, The power, the beauty, and the majesty, That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain. Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, Or chasms and wat'ry depths; all these have vanished ; They live no longer in the faith of reason!
Page 86 - Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watched the water-snakes: They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes. Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire: Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam; and every track Was a flash of golden fire.
Page 98 - Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company \~ To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay...
Page 80 - All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.
Page 89 - Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the sky-lark sing; sometimes all little birds that are, how they seemed to fill the sea and air with their sweet jargoning! And now 'twas like all instruments, now like a lonely flute; and now it is an angel's song, that makes the heavens be mute.
Page 73 - ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower. The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, ' Had blended with the lights of eve ; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve...
Page 90 - gan stir, With a short uneasy motion Backwards and forwards half her length With a short uneasy motion. Then, like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound: It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound.
Page xliii - tis Death itself there dies. EPITAPH. STOP, Christian Passer-by — Stop, child of God, And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod A poet lies, or that which once seem'd he — O lift one thought in prayer for STC ; That he who many a year with toil of breath Found death in life, may here find life in death ! Mercy for praise — to be forgiven for fame He ask'd, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same ! AN ODE TO THE RAIN.
Page 70 - Tis the merry Nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul Of all its music...