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beautiful better blood Bowles callid CANTO Catholic cause death devil doubt earth eyes face fact fair fame feelings give glory grew grow half hand hath head heard heart heaven hope hour human Italy Juan kind king knew lady land late least leave less light living look Lord matter mean mind moral nature ne'er never night Note o'er once pass passion perhaps person poet poetical poor Pope present rest round Saint scarce seem'd seen short smile sometimes sort soul spirit Stanza stood strange sure sweet tell things thou thought thousand true truth turn waves whole wind wish young youth
Page 110 - The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.
Page 111 - Must we but blush?— Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae! What, silent still? and silent all? Ah! no;— the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, "Let one living head, But one, arise,— we come, we come!
Page 349 - Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone; But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, But in the war which struck Charles from his throne...
Page 93 - Oh, Love ! what is it in this world of ours Which makes it fatal to be loved ? Ah, why With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers, And made thy best interpreter a sigh ? As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers, And place them on their breast — but place to die : Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.
Page 293 - A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping ' ' In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe, through their sea-coal canopy ; A huge dun cupola, like a foolscap crown On a fool's head — and there is London town ! LXXXIII.
Page 503 - Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust, disused, and shine no more, My Mary!
Page 113 - Tis strange, the shortest letter which man uses Instead of speech, may form a lasting link Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this, Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his!
Page 67 - Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam, He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain Into his dying child's mouth- but in vain. The boy expired- the father held the clay, And...