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LibraryThing ReviewComentário do usuário - jon1lambert - LibraryThing
I can remember my mother reciting Elegy written in a country church-yard - not all of it though. This poem seemed to mean a lot to her. She never reached the line: 'The path of glory leads but to the grave'. Ler resenha completa
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Página 46 - To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of Man: And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began.
Página 147 - THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Página 149 - And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave Await alike th' inevitable hour : — The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Página 61 - That every labouring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage: Lo! Poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow-consuming Age. To each his sufferings: all are men, Condemned alike to groan; The tender for another's pain, Th
Página 155 - One morn I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath and near his favorite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; "The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
Página 104 - Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries — No more I weep : they do not sleep ! On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit; they linger yet Avengers of their native land : With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.
Página 156 - Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth, And melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere...
Página 148 - Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
Página 138 - OWEN's praise demands my song, OWEN swift, and OWEN strong; Fairest flower of Roderic's stem, * Gwyneth's shield, and Britain's gem. He nor heaps his brooded stores, Nor on all profusely pours; Lord of every regal art, Liberal hand, and open heart. Big with hosts of mighty name, Squadrons three against him came; This the force of Eirin hiding, Side by side as proudly riding, On her shadow long and gay * Lochlin plows...