The British Poets

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Little, Brown & Company, 1866

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Page 99 - Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below — As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.
Page 103 - By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; And yet amidst that joy and uproar Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore.
Page 115 - I'll forgive your Highland chief. My daughter ! Oh ! my daughter...
Page 105 - On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.
Page 17 - Oh ! bloodiest picture in the book of Time Sarmatia fell unwept, without a crime ; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe...
Page 418 - But do not harbor a thought that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not turn on his heel to save his life.
Page 128 - All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The Sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality ! I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of time ! I saw the last of human mould, That shall Creation's death behold, As Adam saw her prime ! The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, The Earth with age was wan The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man...
Page 136 - For ill can Poetry express Full many a tone of thought sublime, And Painting, mute and motionless, Steals but a glance of time. ' . ' But by the mighty actor brought, Illusion's perfect triumphs come — Verse ceases to be airy thought, - And Sculpture to be dumb.
Page 129 - What though beneath thee man put forth 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...
Page xxxv - Departed spirits of the mighty dead! Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled! Friends of the world! restore your swords to man, Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van! Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, And make her arm puissant as your own! Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return The patriot TELL — the BRUCE OF BANNOCKBURN!

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