Country life [poems].

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George Routledge & Sons, 1873 - 147 pages
 

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Page 48 - O'erhang his wavy bed : Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises, 'midst the twilight path Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum...
Page 142 - Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven ! If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, That in our aspirations to be great, Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.
Page 30 - Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some Orient pearls unwept ; Come and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night, And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth.
Page 142 - This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction ; once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring . Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. It is the hush of night...
Page 50 - Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still The pensive Pleasures sweet Prepare thy shadowy car.
Page 124 - YE banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie ! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O
Page 71 - But flutter through life's little day, In Fortune's varying colours drest, Brush'd by the hand of rough mischance, Or chill'd by age, their airy dance They leave, in dust to rest. Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive, kind reply : Poor moralist ! and what art thou ? A solitary fly ! Thy joys no glittering female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display : On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone — We frolic, while 'tis May.
Page 140 - The moon is up, and yet it is not night — Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Of blue Friuli's mountains ; Heaven is free From clouds, but of all colours seems to be Melted to one vast Iris of the West, Where the Day joins the past Eternity ; While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest ! XXVIII.
Page 125 - O' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk? How rich the hawthorn's blossom! As underneath their fragrant shade, I clasped her to my bosom! The golden hours on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life, Was my sweet Highland Mary! Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But, oh!
Page 30 - To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green, And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair: Fear not; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you: Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept. Come, and receive them...

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