The English Poetical Works of Evan MacColl...: With a Biographical Sketch of the Author

Hunter, Rose, 1883 - 360 páginas

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Página 32 - O May ! thou'rt an enchantress rare — Thy presence maketh all things fair ; Thou wavest but thy wand, and joy is everywhere. Thou comest and the clouds are not — Rude Boreas has his wrath forgot — The gossamer again is in the air afloat. The foaming torrent from the hill Thou changest to a gentle rill — A thread of liquid pearl, that faintly murmurs still. Thine is the blossom-laden tree — The meads that white with lambkins be — Thine too the nether world that in each lake we see.
Página 21 - In point, glitter, and polish, he is the Moore of Highland song, comparison and ideality are the leading features of his mind. Some of the pieces in this volume are sparkling tissues of comparison from beginning to end.
Página 12 - ... haunt where, in the enjoyment of that solitude which his father's fire-side denied him, he might be found taking advantage of the very moonlight to pore over the minstrelsy of his native country, until lassitude or the hour of repose compelled him to return home.
Página 25 - Maccoll is considerably past the middle of life, but bids fair to weather the storm of existence for many years to come. In private life he is, both by precept and example, all that could be desired. He has an intense love for all that is really good and beautiful and...
Página 144 - EVAN MACCOLL THE CHILD OF PROMISE SHE died — as die the roses On the ruddy clouds of dawn, When the envious sun discloses His flame, and morning's gone. She died — like snow glad-gracing Some sea-marge fair, when, lo ! Rude waves, each other chasing, Quick hide it 'neath their flow. She died — like snow fair showering Some sea-marge, when, anon, In comes the wave devouring — The beautiful is gone. She died — as dies the glory Of music's sweetest swell : She died — as dies the story When...
Página 20 - Of this latter, the highest authorities in Britain speak in terms of praise. Dr. McLeod, the editor of " Good Words," says : " Evan McColl's poetry is the product of a mind impressed with the beauty and the grandeur of the lovely scenes in which his infancy has been nursed. We have no hesitation in saying, that this work is that of a man possessed of much poetic genius. Wild, indeed, and sometimes rough, are his rhymes and epithets ; yet there are thoughts so new and so striking — images and comparisons...
Página 145 - The ground-swell broke on thee. She died — as dies the glory Of music's sweetest swell; She died— as dies the story When the best is still to tell. She died — as dies moon-beaming When scowls the rayless wave: She died — like sweetest dreaming That hastens to its grave. She died — and died she early : Heaven wearied for its own. As the dipping sun, my Mary, . Thy morning ray went down!
Página 55 - ... rushing might, Rocks thou art rounding ; There, like a flash of light, Over them bounding !" Glen-Urquhart justly evokes intense admiration, but it is scarcely fair to depreciate Stratherrick to supply a dark background for setting off the author's fairy picture. Addressing the Glen, he says — " Hail, thou Arcadia of the North ! Glen-Urquhart lovely, well I trow Yon sun above thee ne'er looked forth On any landscape fair as thou. " When Nature's seeming negligence Left rough Stratherrick what...
Página 286 - ... acquaintance, nor a larger outlook, on life than MacColl. But in the midst of all new associations and attractions, he remained at heart frankly and even sternly Highland. The following verse of an address (1878), to a well-known Highland patriot, Mr. John Murdoch, illustrates this phase of his character : — I think I see thy manly form, Firm, and unyielding as Cairngorm, The poor man's cause maintaining warm, Just like a true-souled Highlander ; I see the scorn within thine eye As some evicting...
Página 42 - ... dark gorges deep Methinks I see thee going, Half hid 'mid woods that love to keep Fond watch upon thy flowing From rock to rock, With flash and shock, And fury ever growing ; A giant fettered, it is true, Yet bound all barriers to subdue. O for a home on Agais fair Nigh which, anon, thou wendest Thy way, proud-rushing on to where In thy great might thou rendest The one more chain That strives in vain To fetter thee, and lendest Unto the Dream thy grandest gift of all, The gleaming glory of Kilmorack's...

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