Beauties of the Modern Poets: In Selections from the Works of Byron, Moore, Scott [and Others] : with Many Fugitive Pieces of Distinguished Merit

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Wightman and Cramp, 1826 - English poetry - 392 pages
 

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Page 250 - The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, Slaves by their own compulsion ! In mad game They burst their manacles and wear the name Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain ! O Liberty ! with profitless endeavour Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour ; But thou nor swell's!
Page 125 - She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace ; For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face.
Page 26 - Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin — his control Stops with the shore ; upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed...
Page 208 - ON Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow ; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
Page 318 - Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
Page 97 - Her vest of gold Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, An emerald stone in every golden clasp ; And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls. But then her face, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, The overflowings of an innocent heart — It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, Like some wild melody...
Page 169 - From wandering on a foreign strand ? If such there breathe, go mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
Page 178 - And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy, And strives to strangle him before he die.
Page 124 - All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower. The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve!
Page 127 - The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve ; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherished long ! She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin shame ; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.

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