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LibraryThing ReviewNutzerbericht - jon1lambert - LibraryThing
I can remember my mother reciting Elegy written in a country church-yard - not all of it though. This poem seemed to mean a lot to her. She never reached the line: 'The path of glory leads but to the grave'. Vollständige Rezension lesen
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againſt appear arms Bank beneath breaſt breath Cambridge compenſation COUNTRY death deep dreadful edition Edward eyes face fate father firſt Full gave give given glory Gray Gray's hand harmony head hear heard heart hill human hundred pounds Italy kind King Lady laid land laſt leave light lines living London Lord loves Maſon mind mother Muſe nature night notes o'er O’er ODIN once pain perſon Pindar pleaſing poems Poet PUBLIC publiſher Queen reign round ſaid ſay ſee ſeen ſhade ſhall ſhe ſome ſong ſoul ſtand ſtate ſtrains ſuch ſum tear thee theſe THOMAS thou thought thro Till triumph verſes viſit voice wait Weave whoſe wind wing wiſh York youth
Seite 46 - To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of Man: And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began.
Seite 147 - THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Seite 149 - And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave Await alike th' inevitable hour : — The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Seite 61 - That every labouring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage: Lo! Poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow-consuming Age. To each his sufferings: all are men, Condemned alike to groan; The tender for another's pain, Th
Seite 155 - One morn I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath and near his favorite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; "The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
Seite 104 - Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — No more I weep : they do not sleep ! On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit; they linger yet Avengers of their native land : With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.
Seite 156 - Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth, And melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere...
Seite 148 - Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
Seite 138 - OWEN's praise demands my song, OWEN swift, and OWEN strong; Fairest flower of Roderic's stem, * Gwyneth's shield, and Britain's gem. He nor heaps his brooded stores, Nor on all profusely pours; Lord of every regal art, Liberal hand, and open heart. Big with hosts of mighty name, Squadrons three against him came; This the force of Eirin hiding, Side by side as proudly riding, On her shadow long and gay * Lochlin plows...