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amid answering tone art thou Autumn beam beauty beneath bloom bosom Bowdoin bowers breast breath bright brow Brunswick CHARLES H clouds cold Covenanters dark dead death deep dirge doth dream earth fair faith FAITHLEss fears flowers friends gaze gentle gloom glory glowing gone grave green green youth hath heart heaven holy hopes hour hues idolatry infant leaves life's life’s light live alway lonely Lyre morning mother mournful ne'er neath night o’er ocean passed prayer proud rest ROBERT WYMAN rolling round Seba Smith shining shore sigh silent skies sleep slumbers smile soft song sorrow soul spirit stars stern storm stream strife sunny sweet swell T H E tears tempest’s thee There’s thine thou art thought throng tread trembling Twas voice voice of Spring wave weep wild wind wing withering woods WOSE youth
Página 29 - White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral camp was seen, And with a sorrowful, deep sound, The river flowed between. No other voice nor sound was there, No drum, nor sentry's pace ; The mist-like banners clasped the air, As clouds with clouds embrace. But, when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarmed air. Down the broad valley, fast and far, The troubled army fled ; Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead.
Página 137 - When the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered, To a holy, calm delight...
Página 28 - I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague. Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, TTiere stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead.
Página 138 - And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies.
Página 177 - Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
Página 139 - Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air. O, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died ! FLOWERS.
Página 137 - Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door; The beloved, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strife, By the roadside fell and perished, Weary with the march of life! They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with...
Página 24 - The babe was sleeping on her breast. And colder still the winds did blow, And darker hours of night came on, And deeper grew the drifting snow : Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone. " O God ! " she cried in accents wild, " If I must perish, save my child ! " She stripped her mantle from her breast, And bared her bosom to the storm.
Página 22 - Gray watcher of the waters ! Thou art king Of the blue lake ; and all the winged kind Do fear the echo of thine angry cry. How bright thy savage eye ! Thou lookest down, And seest the shining fishes as they glide ; And poising thy gray wing, thy glossy beak Swift as an arrow strikes its roving prey.