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Página 369 - Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps, And my heart ever gazes on the depth Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed In charnels and on coffins, where black death Keeps record of the trophies won from thee, Hoping to still these obstinate questionings Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost Thy messenger, to render up the tale Of what we are.
Página 369 - If spring's voluptuous pantings when she breathes Her first sweet kisses, have been dear to me; If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast I consciously have injured, but still loved And cherished these my kindred; then forgive This boast, beloved brethren, and withdraw No portion of your wonted favour now! Mother of this unfathomable world! Favour my solemn song, for I have loved Thee ever, and thee only...
Página 366 - Are such as may not find Comparison on earth. Behold the chariot of the Fairy Queen ! Celestial coursers paw the unyielding air ; Their filmy pennons at her word they furl. And stop obedient to the reins of light ; These the Queen of Spells drew in ; She spread a charm around the spot, And, leaning graceful from the ethereal car, Long did she gaze, and silently. Upon the slumbering maid.
Página 357 - He lieth under the shady trees, in the covert of the reed, and fens. The shady trees cover him with their shadow; the willows of the brook compass him about.
Página 373 - I will be wise, And just, and free, and mild, if in me lies Such power, for I grow weary to behold The selfish and the strong still tyrannise Without reproach or check.
Página 373 - Which framed for my lone boat a lone retreat Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen : But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been.
Página 370 - The fountains of divine philosophy Fled not his thirsting lips, and all of great, Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past In truth or fable consecrates, he felt And knew.
Página 430 - Oh Grief, beyond all other griefs, when fate First leaves the young heart lone and desolate In the wide world, without that only tie For which it lov'd to live or fear'd to die ; — Lorn as the hung-up lute, that ne'er hath spoken Since the sad day its master-chord was broken...
Página 102 - I have been reading Gray's Works, and think him the only poet, since Shakespeare, entitled to the character of sublime. Perhaps you will remember, that I once had a different opinion of him. I was prejudiced.