The Poems of William Collins

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H. Frowde, 1907 - Poets, English - 90 pages
 

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Page 58 - He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down ; And with a withering look The war-denouncing trumpet took And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ! And ever and anon he beat...
Page 58 - ... twas wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whispered promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She...
Page 40 - How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blest ! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
Page 60 - Can well recall what then it heard. Where is thy native simple heart Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Page 52 - midst its dreary dells, Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams ! Or if chill blust'ring winds, or driving rain, Prevent my willing feet ; be mine the hut That, from the mountain's side, Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires ! And hears their simple bell ! and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil...
Page 51 - 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: Now teach me, maid composed, To breathe some softened strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit, As, musing...
Page 58 - Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul : And, dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing In hollow murmurs died away.
Page 64 - And mid the varied landscape weep. But thou, who own'st that earthy bed, Ah ! what will every dirge avail? Or tears which love and pity shed, That mourn beneath the gliding sail?
Page 51 - O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hush'd, 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 63 - Then maids and youths shall linger here, And while its sounds at distance swell, Shall sadly seem in pity's ear To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.

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