Songs of Three CenturiesJohn Greenleaf Whittier J.R. Osgood, 1875 - 352 страници |
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... Come live with me , and be my love . The shepherd swains shall dance and sing , For thy delight , each May - morning : If these delights thy mind may move , Then live with me , and be my love . SIR WALTER RALEIGH . [ 1552-1618 . ] THE ...
... Come live with me , and be my love . The shepherd swains shall dance and sing , For thy delight , each May - morning : If these delights thy mind may move , Then live with me , and be my love . SIR WALTER RALEIGH . [ 1552-1618 . ] THE ...
Страница 16
... Come hither , come hither , come hither ; Here shall he see No enemy , But winter and rough weather . Who doth ambition shun , And loves to live i ' the sun , Seeking the food he eats , And pleased with what he gets , Come hither , come ...
... Come hither , come hither , come hither ; Here shall he see No enemy , But winter and rough weather . Who doth ambition shun , And loves to live i ' the sun , Seeking the food he eats , And pleased with what he gets , Come hither , come ...
Страница 17
... come to dust . Fear no more the lightning flash , Nor the all - dreaded thunder - stone ; Fear not slander , censure rash ; Thou hast finished joy and moan : All lovers young , all lovers must Consign to thee , and come to dust . No ...
... come to dust . Fear no more the lightning flash , Nor the all - dreaded thunder - stone ; Fear not slander , censure rash ; Thou hast finished joy and moan : All lovers young , all lovers must Consign to thee , and come to dust . No ...
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... Come doun , come doun to me ; This night sall ye lig within mine arms , To - morrow my bride sall be . " " I winna come down , ye fause Gordon , I winna come down to thee ; I winna forsake my ain dear lord , - And he is na far frae me ...
... Come doun , come doun to me ; This night sall ye lig within mine arms , To - morrow my bride sall be . " " I winna come down , ye fause Gordon , I winna come down to thee ; I winna forsake my ain dear lord , - And he is na far frae me ...
Страница 28
... come : And slow howe'er my marches be , I shall at last sit down by thee . The thought of this bids me go on , And wait my dissolution With hope and comfort . Dear , forgive The crime , I am content to live Divided , with but half a ...
... come : And slow howe'er my marches be , I shall at last sit down by thee . The thought of this bids me go on , And wait my dissolution With hope and comfort . Dear , forgive The crime , I am content to live Divided , with but half a ...
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angels beauty BEGONE DULL CARE bells beneath bird blessed bliss bonnie Braes breast breath bright busk calm Christabel clouds dark dead dear death deep doth dream earth EDMUND SPENSER Edom eternal eyes face fair fear flowers frae Glenlogie glory golden grace grave green Grongar Hill hand hast hath hear heard heart heaven hill holy hour Hymn Inchcape Rock JOHN BYROM Kilmeny kiss lady land lassie light live Lochaber lonely look Lord maun mind morning mourn ne'er never night o'er praise rest rose round Saint Agnes SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE scorn shade shine shore sigh sing sleep smile soft song sorrow soul sound spirit spring stars sweet tears tell thee thine thou art thought tree unto vale voice wandering waves weary weel ween weep wild WILLIAM SHENSTONE wind wings Yarrow
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Страница 125 - But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
Страница 66 - Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all: And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Страница 209 - Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! — For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
Страница 30 - GOING TO THE WARS Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour more.
Страница 125 - For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
Страница 160 - With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags Plying her needle and thread — Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, Would that its tone could reach the rich ! She sang this "Song of the Shirt.
Страница 223 - Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea,
Страница 37 - The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
Страница 97 - No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay...
Страница 223 - Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!