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Seite 155 - We wither from our youth, we gasp away — Sick — sick; unfound the boon — unslaked the thirst, Though to the last, in verge of our decay, Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 'tis the same, Each idle — and all ill — and none the worst — For all are meteors with a different name, And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame.
Seite 37 - Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven! If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, That in our aspirations to be great, Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you; for ye are A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.
Seite 336 - So speaks affection, ere the infant eye Can look regard, or brighten in reply; But when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim A mother's ear by that endearing name; Soon as the playful innocent can prove A tear of pity, or a smile of love, Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care, Or lisps with holy look his evening prayer...
Seite 88 - With fairest flowers Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lack The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor The azured harebell, like thy veins, no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweeten'd not thy breath...
Seite 303 - The truth of it is, there is nothing in history which is so improving to the reader as those accounts which we meet with of the deaths of eminent persons, and of their behaviour in that dreadful season. I may also add, that there are no parts in history which affect and please the reader in so sensible a manner. The reason I take to be this...
Seite 272 - While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy lingering light: While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves...
Seite 272 - O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises, 'midst the twilight path Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum...
Seite 304 - What is that, Mother?— The eagle, boy!— Proudly careering his course of joy : Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying, Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying, His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun, He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine, Onward, and upward, and true to the line.
Seite 142 - The earth is every day overspread with the veil of night for the same reason as the cages of birds are darkened — viz. that we may the more readily apprehend the higher harmonies of thought in the hush and quiet of darkness. Thoughts which day turns into smoke and mist stand about us in the night as lights and flames : even as the column which fluctuates above the crater...
Seite 336 - Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy : No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine ; No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine ; Bright as his manly sire the son shall be In form and soul ; but, ah ! more blest than he ! Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last, Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past — With many a smile my solitude repay, And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.