G.P. Putnam, 1850 - 229 páginas

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Página 141 - The swallows all have wing'd across the main ; But here the Autumn melancholy dwells, And sighs her tearful spells Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. Alone, alone, Upon a mossy stone, She sits and reckons up the dead and gone, With the last leaves for a love-rosary...
Página 130 - Twas papered o'er with studious themes, The tasks I wrote, — my present dreams Will never soar so high. My joys are wingless all and dead ; My dumps are made of more than lead ; My flights soon find a fall : My fears prevail, my fancies droop, Joy never cometh with a hoop, And seldom with a call ! My...
Página 2 - We pluok'd them as we pass'd ! That churlish season never frown'd On early lovers yet ! Oh, no — the world was newly crown'd With flowers when first we met. 'Twas twilight, and I bade you go, But still you held me fast ; It was the time of roses, — We pluck'd them as we pass'd ! THE ROMANCE OF COLOGNE.
Página 157 - MOTHER of light ! how fairly dost thou go Over those hoary crests, divinely led ! — Art thou that huntress of the silver bow Fabled of old ? Or rather dost thou tread Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow, Where hunter never...
Página 207 - ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY.* AH me ! those old familiar bounds ! That classic house, those classic grounds My pensive thought recalls ! What tender urchins now confine, What little captives now repine, Within yon irksome walls ? Ay, that's the very house ! I know Its ugly windows, ten a-row ! Its chimneys in the rear ! And there's the iron rod so high, That drew the thunder from the sky And...
Página 133 - SUMMER is gone on swallows' wings, And earth has buried all her flowers : No more the lark, the linnet sings, But silence sits in faded bowers. There is a shadow on the plain Of Winter ere he comes again, — There is in woods a solemn sound Of hollow warnings whispered round, As Echo in her deep recess For once had turned a prophetess.
Página 131 - The careless dogs'-ears apt to deck My book and collar both ! How can this formal man be styled Merely an Alexandrine child, A boy of larger growth ? Oh for that small, small beer anew ! And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-blue...
Página 179 - Close, close your eyes with holy dread, And weave a circle round him thrice ; For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise \-Coleridge.

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