Poems

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Edward O. Jenkins, 1846 - 168 страници
 

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Страница 45 - Caledonia ! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child ! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires ! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand ! Still, as I view each well-known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been, Seems as, to me, of all bereft, Sole friends thy woods and streams are left ; And thus I love them better still, Even in extremity of ill.
Страница 45 - From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : Princes and lords are but the breath of kings; " An honest man's the noblest work of God ;" And, certes,* in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind. What is a lordling's pomp ? A cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind! Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ! O Scotia, my dear, my native soil!
Страница 45 - And, oh ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved Isle.
Страница 131 - The mountains look on Marathon, And Marathon looks on the sea ; And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free ; For standing on the Persian's grave, I could not deem myself a slave.
Страница 118 - And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side: In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the...
Страница 45 - Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land ? Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand...
Страница 16 - Non possidentem multa vocaveris Recte beatum : rectius occupat Nomen beati qui deorum Muneribus sapienter uti Duramque callet pauperiem pati, Pejusque leto flagitium timet, Non ille pro caris amicis Aut patria timidus perire.
Страница 71 - FLY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race ; Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours, Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace ; And glut thyself with what thy womb devours, Which is no more than what is false and vain, And merely mortal dross ; So little is our loss, So little is thy gain.
Страница 95 - Amour sacré de la patrie, Conduis, soutiens nos bras vengeurs ! Liberté ! Liberté chérie, Combats avec tes défenseurs ! Sous nos drapeaux, que la victoire Accoure à tes mâles accents ! Que tes ennemis expirants Voient ton triomphe et notre gloire ! Aux armes, etc.
Страница 46 - O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! And...

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