Was andere dazu sagen - Rezension schreiben
Es wurden keine Rezensionen gefunden.
Andere Ausgaben - Alle anzeigen
Adam angels appear arms Behold beneath birds bosom breast breath bright brow close dark dear death deep delight desire divine dread earth eternal eyes fair fall Father fear feel field fire flame FLESH flowers force fruit give glory gold grace grove hand happy hast hear heard heart heaven hell Hence hope human kind leaves length less light live looks Lord lost LUCIFER mighty mind Muse nature never night o'er once pain peace praise prove pure raise rest rise SCENE seat seek SERPENT shade shalt shore sight sing song soon soul sound speak spirit spring stars stream sweet tears tell thee thine things thou thou hast thought true turn verse voice wings wish youth
Seite 78 - Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream ; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary ! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary ! For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline Thy hands their little force resign ; Yet, gently prest, press gently mine, My Mary...
Seite 56 - Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss ; Ah, that maternal smile, it answers yes ! I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! But was it such ? It was.
Seite vi - With all her crew complete. Toll for the brave ! Brave Kempenfelt is gone ; His last sea-fight is fought ; His work of glory done. It was not in the battle ; No tempest gave the shock ; She sprang no fatal leak ; She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath ; His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went clown With twice four hundred men.
Seite x - Deem our nation brutes no longer, Till some reason ye shall find Worthier of regard and stronger Than the colour of our kind. Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings Tarnish all your boasted powers, Prove that you have human feelings Ere you proudly question ours ! PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS.
Seite ix - Why did All-creating Nature Make the plant for which we toil ? Sighs must fan it, tears must water, Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters iron-hearted, Lolling at your jovial boards, Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords.
Seite 58 - Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile; There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay, So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;" And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
Seite 87 - Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he Their haste himself condemn, Aware that flight, in such a sea, Alone could rescue them; Yet bitter felt it still to die Deserted, and his friends so nigh. He long survives, who lives an hour In ocean, self-upheld; And so long he, with unspent power, His destiny repelled; And ever, as the minutes flew, Entreated help, or cried 'Adieu...
Seite 88 - Adieu!' At length, his transient respite past, His comrades, who before Had heard his voice in every blast, Could catch the sound no more: For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank. No poet wept him; but the page Of narrative sincere, That tells his name, his worth, his age Is wet with Anson's tear: And tears by bards or heroes shed Alike immortalize the dead.
Seite 39 - Oh, could'st thou speak, As in Dodona once thy kindred trees Oracular, I would not curious ask The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, The clock of history, facts and events Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts Recov'ring, and misstated setting right...
Seite 65 - Heaven as some have feign'd they drew, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things, That ere through age or woe I shed my wings, I may record thy worth with honour due, In verse as musical as thou art true, And that immortalizes whom it sings. But thou hast little need. There is a book...