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Seite 92 - The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel, But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch'd, unfledged comrade.
Seite 131 - Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim...
Seite 262 - Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone: And yet no further than a wanton's bird; Who lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty.
Seite 410 - Twas in the calm and silent night ; The senator of haughty Rome, Impatient, urged his chariot's flight, From lordly revel rolling home ; Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell His breast with thoughts of boundless sway : What recked the Roman what befell A paltry province far away In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago?
Seite 328 - And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep ; A shade that follows wealth or fame, But leaves the wretch to weep...
Seite 400 - Require the borrow'd gloss of art? Speak not of fate: ah! change the theme, And talk of odours, talk of wine, Talk of the flowers that round us bloom: Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream; To love and joy thy thoughts confine, Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom.
Seite 409 - How keen the stars! his only thought; The air how calm and cold and thin, •In the solemn midnight Centuries ago ! O strange indifference! — low and high Drowsed over common joys and cares: The earth was still — but knew not why; The world was listening — unawares. How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world for ever! To that still moment none would heed, Man's doom was linked, no more to sever, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago.
Seite 400 - That rosy cheek, that lily hand, Would give thy poet more delight Than all Bocara's vaunted gold, Than all the gems of Samarcand. Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow, And bid thy pensive heart be glad, Whate'er the frowning zealots say : Tell them, their Eden cannot show A stream so clear as Rocnabad, A bower so sweet as Mosellay.