The Poetical Writings of Fitz-Greene Halleck: With Extracts from Those of Joseph Rodman Drake

D. Appleton, 1869 - 389 páginas

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Página 34 - Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days! None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise.
Página 13 - At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour "When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power ; In dreams, through camp and court, he bore The trophies of a conqueror ; In dreams his song of triumph heard ; Then wore his monarch's signet ring, — Then pressed that monarch's throne, — a king ; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird.
Página 71 - They love their land, because it is their own, And scorn to give aught other reason why ; Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, And think it kindness to his majesty ; A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none.
Página 125 - And a dew was distill'd from their flowers that gave All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone. Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, , An essence that breathes of it many a year ; Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer...
Página 125 - There's a bower of roses by BENDEMEER'S ' stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long ; In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.
Página 186 - Glance their many-twinkling feet. •Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare: Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay; With arms sublime, that float upon the air, In gliding state she wins her easy way; O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.
Página 14 - And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band: "Strike — till the last armed foe expires ; Strike — for your altars and your fires ; Strike — for the green graves of your sires; God — and your native land...
Página 15 - But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Come, when his task of fame is wrought — Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought...
Página 73 - The glorious splendor of her sunset clouds, The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves, Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds, Where'er his web of song her poet weaves ; And his mind's • brightest vision but displays The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days.
Página 25 - Or the smile light the cheek ; And his that music, to whose tone The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle's mirth or moan, In cold or sunny clime. And who hath heard his song, nor knelt Before its spell with willing knee, And...

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