Poems

Capa
Groombridge and Sons, 1855 - 109 páginas
 

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Página 106 - Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed...
Página 106 - And the mother gave, in tears and pain, The flowers she most did love ; She knew she should find them all again In the fields of light above. Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath, The Reaper came that day ; 'Twas an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away.
Página 106 - THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms ; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms. Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys...
Página 101 - We deny that it is a crime, or a wrong, or even a peccadillo, to hold slaves, or to buy slaves, to sell slaves, to keep slaves to their work by flogging or other needful coercion . . . and as for being a participator in the wrongs, we, for our part, wish we had a good plantation, well stocked with healthy negroes in Alabama.
Página 18 - Stand now thy sculptur'd buildings tow'ring high, And gilded spires that climb the azure sky, And sweeping terraces, and grand parades, And circling crescents ! Oh, what place can vie With thy fair avenues and cooling shades, Or boast such beauteous forms as throng thy promenades!
Página 106 - Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, Pass'd o'er the village as the morning broke ; The dawn was on their faces, and beneath, The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke. Their attitude and aspect were the same ; Alike their features and their robes of white ; But one was...
Página 19 - The streamlet with a clearer ripple flows, The very flowers a richer perfume yield, Even the cawing of the stately crows, That undisturbed strut o'er the new-ploughed field, Seems musical to me!
Página 70 - ... the poet — the good Samaritan — comes by, and the wounded are soothed by his healing hand, and the dead have decent burial, with the unction of melodious tears. The dark, the mean, the abject, are instantly radiated, and the dead past lifts a radiant brow, in the light of his loving countenance. It is the blessed and Christlike privilege of poetry to take to her bosom whatsoever the world hath cast out.

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