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bawbee beauty beneath blank verse breath breeze bright Burns Byron Charles Lamb charm clouds Cockpen Coleridge dark dear death deep delight dream earth English ENGLISH LITERATURE eyes fair fancy father fear feel flowers frae friends gaze Gelert genius grace grave green hand happy hath hear heard heart heaven hill honour hope Horace Smith hour Kilmeny lady light literary living lonely look Lord Lord Byron MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS mind moon Moore morning mountain native nature never night o'er passion pleasure poem poet poetical poetry pride published round says scene Scotland Scott seemed shade shew sigh silent Sir Walter Scott sleep smile song soul Southey spirit stars stream sweet tale taste tears tender thee thine thou thought Twas Vathek verse voice volume wandering wave wild wind Wordsworth young youth
Page 275 - I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.
Page 5 - Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. No: — Men, high-minded men, With powers as far above dull brutes endued, In forest, brake, or den, As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude; Men, who their duties know, But know their rights, and knowing, dare maintain, Prevent the long-aimed blow, And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain. These constitute a state; And sovereign Law, that state's collected will, O'er thrones and globes elate Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill...
Page 17 - All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks, That humour interposed too often makes ; All this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age...
Page 295 - 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.
Page 259 - He heard it, but he heeded not : his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away ; He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother, — he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday, — All this rushed with his blood.
Page 378 - So the Lord scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth : and they left off to build the city.
Page 137 - Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother: And in the churchyard cottage I Dwell near them with my mother.
Page 283 - I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright.
Page 290 - Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown...
Page 290 - Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod.