Sonnets and fugitive pieces

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Page 33 - Angel's there ! and yet I cannot rise ! 1 wish that Christ were here among us still, Proffering his bosom to his servant's brow, But oh ! that holy voice comes o'er us now Like twilight echoes from a distant hill : No mountain-sermons, and no ruthful gaze ! No voice sweet-ton'd, and blessing all the time : No cheerly credence gather'd from his face ! No path thro...
Page 12 - VEXATION waits on passion's changeful glow, But th' intellect may rove a thousand ways, And yet be calm while fluctuating so : The dew-drop shakes not to its shifting rays And transits of soft light. Be bold to choose This never satiate freedom of delight, Before the fiery bowl and red carouse, And task for joy thy soul's majestic might ; So for the sensual will be rarer need ; So will thy mind a giant force assume, Strong as the centre of the deep Maelstroom, When flung into the calm of sightless...
Page 9 - The seething hiss of his tumultuous foam, Like armies whispering where great echoes be ! Oh ! leave me here upon this beach to rove, Mute listener to that sound so grand and lone — A glorious sound...
Page 14 - The garden path rings hard beneath my feet, And hark, O hear I not the gentle dews Fretting the silent forest in his sleep ? Or does the stir of housing insects creep Thus faintly on mine ear ? day's many hues...
Page 7 - O honey-throated warbler of the grove! That in the glooming woodland art so proud Of answering thy sweet mates in soft or loud, Thou dost not own a note we do not love; The moon is o'er thee, laying out the lawn In mighty shadows - but the western skies Are kept awake, to see the sun arise, Though earth and heaven would fain put back the dawn!
Page 49 - When birds begin to build and brood and sing ; Or, in maturer season, when the pied And fragrant turf is thronged with blossoms rare ; In the frore sweetness of the breathing morn, When the loud echoes of the herdsman's horn Do sally forth upon the silent air Of thy thick forestry, may...
Page 26 - Mary dear But oft-times, when delight has fullest power, Hope treads too lightly for herself to hear, And doubt is ever by until the hour . I trust thee, Mary, but till thou art mine, Up from thy foot unto thy golden hair...
Page 24 - A hundred wings are dropt as soft as one, Now ye are lighted ! Pleasing to my sight The fearful circle of your wondering flight, Rapid and loud, and drawing homeward soon ; And then, the sober chiding of your tone, As there ye sit, from your own roofs arraigning My trespass on your haunts, so boldly done, Sounds like a solemn and a just complaining.

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