England and Wales

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Houghton, Mifflin, 1876 - English poetry

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Page 175 - E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the nnhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate...
Page 173 - Await alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death...
Page 193 - For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art, Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart • Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book, Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble, with too much conceiving ; And, so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
Page 138 - There is a gentle Nymph not far from hence, That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream : Sabrina is her name : a virgin pure ; Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine, That had the sceptre from his father Brute. She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuit Of her enraged stepdame, Guendolen, 830 Commended her fair innocence to the flood That stayed her flight with his cross-flowing course. The water-nymphs, that in the bottom played, Held up their pearled wrists, and took her in, Bearing...
Page 46 - And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay. Ho ! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight : ho ! scatter flowers, fair maids : Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute: ho! gallants, draw your blades : Thou sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes, waft her wide; Our glorious SEMPER EADEM, the banner of our pride.
Page 48 - Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth ; High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the north ; And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still: All night from tower to tower they sprang; they sprang from hill to hill...
Page 251 - Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night. The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river : Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery Swift to be hurl'd— Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world!
Page 174 - Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death * Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed. Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre...
Page 191 - (she said), ' whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year : Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal boy ! This can unlock the gates of joy; Of horror that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.
Page 249 - Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing,— Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; ' Not of the stains of her— All that remains of her Now, is pure womanly.

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