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Page 95 - My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled, at its blaze — A funeral pile.
Page 18 - ... that he should again condescend to become an author. Therefore, let us take what we get, and be thankful. What right have we poor devils to be nice ? We are well off to have got so much from a man of this lord's station, who does not live in a garret, but
Page 52 - Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends; Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home; Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, He had the passion and the power to roam; The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, Were unto him companionship; they spake A mutual language, clearer than the tome Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake.
Page 52 - Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ! ADA ! sole daughter of my house and heart ? When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled, And then we parted, — not as now we part, But with a hope. — Awaking with a start, The waters heave around me ; and on high The winds lift up their voices : I depart, Whither I know not ; but the hour's gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
Page 95 - Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved. Still let me love! My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone!
Page 23 - I have a passion for the name of " Mary," For once it was a magic sound to me, And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, Where I beheld what never was to be ; All feelings changed, but this was last to vary, A spell from which even yet I am not quite free : But I grow sad — and let a tale grow cold, Which must not be pathetically told.
Page 71 - Sweet hour of twilight !— in the solitude Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave...
Page 65 - What if thy deep and ample stream should be A mirror of my heart, where she may read The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed! What do I say — a mirror of my heart? 10 Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong?
Page 14 - That, with the freshness wearing out before My mind could relish what it might have sought, If free to choose, I cannot now restore Its health ; but what it then detested, still abhor.
Page 9 - Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep : But 'twas not all long ages' lore, nor all Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall; The infant rapture still survived the boy, And Loch-na-gar with Ida look'd o'er Troy, Mix'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount, And Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount.