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Page 157 - Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Page 93 - THE stately homes of England, How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land ! The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream.
Page 142 - The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece, around me see ! The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Was not more free. Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake !) Awake, my spirit ! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, And then strike home ! Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood i — unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be.
Page 157 - Autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way to the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft in life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, and knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Page 325 - His pomp, his pride, his skill , And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, The vassals of his will; — Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim discrowned king of day For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Heal'd not a passion or a pang Entail'd on human hearts.
Page 324 - The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, The Earth with age was wan, The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man ! Some had expired in fight, — the brands Still rusted in their bony hands ; In plague and famine some ! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread, And ships were drifting with the dead . To shores where all was dumb...
Page 142 - My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled, at its blaze — A funeral pile.
Page 317 - Poor wanderers of a stormy day, From wave to wave we're driven, And fancy's flash and reason's ray Serve but to light the troubled way, — There's nothing calm but Heaven ! MIRIAM'S SONG.
Page 325 - Tis mercy bids thee go ; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears That shall no longer flow.
Page 294 - Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage ? Or, haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth with me to mourn The miseries of man ! " The sun that overhangs yon moors, Outspreading far and wide, Where hundreds labor to support A haughty lordling's pride!