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Page 270 - TO him who in the love of nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware.
Page 390 - What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? — They sought a faith's pure shrine. Ay, call it holy ground, — The soil where first they trod! They have left unstained what there they found — Freedom to worship God ! Felicia Hemans.
Page 271 - Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world - with kings, The powerful of the earth - the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre.
Page 250 - In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now — now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Page 290 - Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet we know not we are listening to it, Thou the meanwhile wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy ; Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing — there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven.
Page 101 - So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace: While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bridemaidens whispered, " Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.
Page 275 - And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my...
Page 100 - O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best ; And save his good broad-sword he weapon had none, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
Page 221 - THE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set.