Sketches of the Poetical Literature of the Past Half-century

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W. Blackwood and Sons, 1856 - 335 pagine

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Pagina 251 - I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I REMEMBER, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn : He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away ! I remember, I remember...
Pagina 157 - Prayer is the burden of a sigh, The falling of a tear ; The upward glancing of an eye, When none but God is near.
Pagina 180 - Brightest and best of the sons of the morning ! Dawn on our darkness and lend us Thine aid ! Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid ! <#irst Sunbag after %ip|rang.— No.
Pagina 86 - Alas! they had been friends in youth; But whispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above; And life is thorny; and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain.
Pagina 65 - There was a roaring in the wind all night; The rain came heavily and fell in floods; But now the sun is rising calm and bright; The birds are singing in the distant woods; Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods; The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters; And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.
Pagina 81 - Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills Into the tumult sent an alien sound Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west The orange sky of evening died away.
Pagina 125 - With priest's and warrior's voice between. No portents now our foes amaze, Forsaken Israel wanders lone: Our fathers would not know Thy ways, And Thou hast left them to their own.
Pagina 283 - Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly ! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free.
Pagina 223 - 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 ; Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; The same that ofttimes hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Pagina 144 - Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame.

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