The Native Poets of Maine, Tema 288D. Bugbee & Company, 1854 - 312 páginas |
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... tones . Here , where the broadest rivers sweep , Here , where the dimmest woods are found , Our fondest memories start from sleep , Aroused by thy dear sound . Come , let me strike thy chords once more , And , while my fingers o'er them ...
... tones . Here , where the broadest rivers sweep , Here , where the dimmest woods are found , Our fondest memories start from sleep , Aroused by thy dear sound . Come , let me strike thy chords once more , And , while my fingers o'er them ...
Página 6
... tone , since those odes by which the millions of Israel , tuned their march across the wilderness , and to which the fiery pillar seemed to listen with complacency , and to glow out a deeper crimson , in silent praise . To man's now ...
... tone , since those odes by which the millions of Israel , tuned their march across the wilderness , and to which the fiery pillar seemed to listen with complacency , and to glow out a deeper crimson , in silent praise . To man's now ...
Página 47
... - When the clock strikes clear at morning light- When the child is waked with nine at night ' When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air , Filling the spirit with tones of prayer Whatever tale in NATHANIEL P. WILLIS . 47.
... - When the clock strikes clear at morning light- When the child is waked with nine at night ' When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air , Filling the spirit with tones of prayer Whatever tale in NATHANIEL P. WILLIS . 47.
Página 48
S. Herbert Lancey. Filling the spirit with tones of prayer Whatever tale in the bell is heard , He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd , Or , rising half in his rounded nest , He takes the time to smooth his breast , ' Then drops again ...
S. Herbert Lancey. Filling the spirit with tones of prayer Whatever tale in the bell is heard , He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd , Or , rising half in his rounded nest , He takes the time to smooth his breast , ' Then drops again ...
Página 59
... tone - Of the rare music of my childhood ! — dear Is that strange sound to me ; Dear is the memory It brings my soul of many a parted year . Again , yet once again , O minstrel of the main ! Lo ! festal face and form familiar throng ...
... tone - Of the rare music of my childhood ! — dear Is that strange sound to me ; Dear is the memory It brings my soul of many a parted year . Again , yet once again , O minstrel of the main ! Lo ! festal face and form familiar throng ...
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Términos y frases comunes
amid Bangor Battle of Niagara beautiful beneath birds bless bloom born Boston Bowdoin College breast breath bright brow cheek clouds cold dark dead death deep dream earth echo EDWARD PAYSON WESTON ELIJAH PARISH LOVEJOY ELIZABETH OAKES PRINCE Farewell feel flowers gaze gentle glory gone grave green hast hath hear heart heaven HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW hope hour hymn HYPOLITO Ianthe Idlewild immortal life's light lingering lips literary lone Longfellow look Mellen MELVILLE WESTON FULLER morning mournful native never New-York night o'er pass'd poems poet poetry Portland Portland Tribune prayer Prentiss Mellen published round Seba Smith shadows shine shore sigh sing skies sleep smile song sorrow soul sound spirit star storm stream summer sweet talent tears tell thine Thou art thought of thee tree Twas voice wave weary weep wild wind wing youth
Pasajes populares
Página 22 - THERE is no flock, however watched and tended But one dead lamb is there ! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair ! The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead ; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted...
Página 22 - There is no Death ! What seems so is transition. This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian Whose portal we call Death. She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ Himself doth rule.
Página 14 - Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! — For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
Página 16 - His hair is crisp and black and long, His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow : You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell When the evening sun is low.
Página 28 - THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains, and the wind is never weary ; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.
Página 2 - Tis of the wave and not the rock; 'Tis but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale ! In spite of rock and tempest's roar, In spite of false lights on the shore. Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee.
Página 18 - I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague. Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead.
Página 26 - ... Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air Excelsior ! A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half-buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device Excelsior ! There in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior ! POEMS ON SLAVERY.
Página 25 - THE shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior ! His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior!
Página 20 - ALL houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, With feet that make no sound upon the floors. We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, Along the passages they come and go, Impalpable impressions on the air, A sense of something moving to and fro. There are more guests at table than the hosts Invited ; the illuminated hall Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, As silent as the pictures on the wall.