The Poetical Work of Mrs. Felicia Hemans, Volume 2

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Evert Duyckinck, 1828
 

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Página 135 - THE boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm — A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though childlike form.
Página 115 - Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set — but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death...
Página 86 - I COME, I come! ye have called me long, I come o'er the mountains with light and song; Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose .stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass.
Página 111 - O'er each fair sleeping brow, She had each folded flower in sight — Where are those dreamers now? One midst the forests of the West, By a dark stream, is laid ; The Indian knows his place of rest, Far in the cedar shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, He lies where pearls lie deep, He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep.
Página 88 - The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed, And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er. When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted came; Not with the roll of stirring drums And the trumpet that sings of fame; Not as the flying come In silence and in fear, They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Página 194 - Not there, not there, my child." Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies, Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange bright birds, on their starry wings, Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ? " Not there, not there, my child.
Página 84 - England's dead. The warlike of the isles, The men of field and wave '• Are not the rocks their funeral piles, The seas and shores their grave ' Go, stranger ! track the deep, Free, free the white sail spread Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, Where rest not England's dead.
Página 137 - Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone — nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre.
Página 194 - Not there, not there, my child! " Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair, — Sorrow and death may not enter there ; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom ; Far beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb — It is there, it is there, my child !
Página 68 - Yet more ! the billows and the depths have more ! High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! They hear not now the booming waters roar, The battle-thunders will not break their rest. Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave...

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