The book of poetry [ed. by B.G. Johns]. |
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Page 16
... feel how fair , Amid all beauty beautiful , Thy tender blossoms are . How delicate thy gauzy frill ! How rich thy branchy stem ! How soft thy voice , when woods are still , And thou sing'st hymns to them ! While silent showers are ...
... feel how fair , Amid all beauty beautiful , Thy tender blossoms are . How delicate thy gauzy frill ! How rich thy branchy stem ! How soft thy voice , when woods are still , And thou sing'st hymns to them ! While silent showers are ...
Page 44
... feel How much to them I owe , My cheeks have often been bedew'd With tears of thoughtful gratitude . My thoughts are with the Dead , with them I live in long - past years , Their virtues love , their faults condemn , Partake their hopes ...
... feel How much to them I owe , My cheeks have often been bedew'd With tears of thoughtful gratitude . My thoughts are with the Dead , with them I live in long - past years , Their virtues love , their faults condemn , Partake their hopes ...
Page 53
... feel Devouring flames and murd'ring steel ! The pious mother doom'd to death Forsaken wanders o'er the heath ; The bleak wind whistles round her head , Her helpless orphans cry for bread ; Bereft of shelter , food , and friend , She ...
... feel Devouring flames and murd'ring steel ! The pious mother doom'd to death Forsaken wanders o'er the heath ; The bleak wind whistles round her head , Her helpless orphans cry for bread ; Bereft of shelter , food , and friend , She ...
Page 64
... feels its life in ev'ry breath- What should it know of death ? I met a little cottage - girl ; She was eight years old , she said ; Her hair was thick with many a curl , That cluster'd round her head . She had a rustic woodland air ...
... feels its life in ev'ry breath- What should it know of death ? I met a little cottage - girl ; She was eight years old , she said ; Her hair was thick with many a curl , That cluster'd round her head . She had a rustic woodland air ...
Page 80
... feel the blow ! " King Henry forced a careless smile , As the Hermit went his way : But Henry soon remember'd him , Upon his dying day . SOUTHEY . TO A BEAUTIFUL FEMALE PORTRAIT . ART thou of earth , thou vision fair , Can aught of this ...
... feel the blow ! " King Henry forced a careless smile , As the Hermit went his way : But Henry soon remember'd him , Upon his dying day . SOUTHEY . TO A BEAUTIFUL FEMALE PORTRAIT . ART thou of earth , thou vision fair , Can aught of this ...
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Common terms and phrases
beauty behold bells beneath bowers breast breath bright Caledonia CASABIANCA charms cheerful clouds cried Cumnor Hall dark dead death deep doth dread E'en earth eyes fair falchion Father William fear flowers Gelert gentle glory grave green green days Grongar Hill hand hath hear heard heart heaven helmet of Navarre Henry of Navarre hill HOHENLINDEN hope HYMN King Henry land light LLEWELLYN lonely look look'd Lord Lycidas Mayenne Milford Bay morn mourn murmur never night o'er pass'd Plymouth Bay pomp porringer praise pray round S. T. COLERIDGE shade sight silent sing Skiddaw skies sleep smile soft song sorrow soul sound sound of music spirit spring star stream sweet tears tell thee thine things thou art thou hast thought village voice wave weep wild wind wings woods young youth
Popular passages
Page 116 - Where some, like magistrates, correct at home, Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad, Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds, Which pillage they with merry march bring home To the tent-royal of their emperor...
Page 28 - Sweet smiling village ! loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green ! One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain...
Page 119 - The seasons' difference ; as, the icy fang, And churlish chiding of the winter's wind ; Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say, — This is no flattery : these are counsellors, That feelingly persuade me what I am. Sweet are the uses of adversity ; Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and...
Page 120 - Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, — The seasons' difference : as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, Which when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say, This is no flattery : these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Page 34 - It ceased; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.
Page 134 - I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, 'God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly : thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.
Page 26 - And when the Sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown that Sylvan loves Of Pine, or monumental Oak, Where the rude Axe with heaved stroke, Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
Page 65 - Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?" "How many? seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And where are they, I pray you tell?
Page 28 - How often have I blest the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree...
Page 73 - Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow, On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave ! And charge with all thy chivalry...