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J. Taylor, 1848 - 83 páginas
 

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Página 63 - In being's floods, in action's storm, I walk and work, above, beneath, Work and weave in endless motion ! Birth and death, An infinite ocean; A seizing and giving The fire of the living : 'Tis thus at the roaring loom of time I ply, And weave for God the garment thou seest him by.
Página 35 - For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art, Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book, Those Delphic lines with deep impression took ; Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble, with too much conceiving ; And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie, That kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die.
Página 82 - But that step— it was his last! As through the mist he winged his way, (A cloud that hovers night and day ) The hound hung back, and back he drew The master and his merlin too. That narrow place of noise and strife Received their little all of life.
Página 82 - With hound in leash and hawk in hood, The Boy of Egremond was seen. * Blithe was his song, a song of yore ; But where the rock is rent in two, And the river rushes through, His voice was heard no more...
Página 44 - Fade like the hopes of youth till the beauty of youth is departed : Pensive, though not in thought, I stood at the window beholding Mountain, and lake, and vale ; the valley disrobed of its verdure ; Derwent retaining yet from eve a glassy reflection, Where his expanded breast, then still...
Página 36 - Most women have no character at all," said Pope,! and meant it for satire. Shakspeare, who knew man and woman much better, saw that it, in fact, was the perfection of woman to be characterless. Every one wishes a Desdemona or Ophelia for a wife, — creatures who, though they may not always understand you, do always feel you, and feel with you.
Página 81 - Lord, Thou didst not shudder when the sword Here on the young its fury spent, The helpless and the innocent. Sit now and answer groan for groan. The child before thee is thy own. And she who wildly wanders there, The mother in her long despair, Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping, Of those who by the Wharfe were weeping ; Of those who would not be consoled When red with blood the river rolled.
Página 67 - To visit the green fields, and beautiful woods, And rivulets, that chaunt a lowly ditty In the sleepy ear of summer, — and the sea, That talks for ever to the quiet sands.
Página 62 - MAID of Athens, ere we part, Give, O give me back my heart ! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest ! Hear my vow before I go. By those tresses unconfined, Woo'd by each /Egean wing ; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks...
Página 80 - The mingled sounds were swelling, dying, And down the Wharfe a hern was flying; When near the cabin in the wood, In tartan clad and forest-green, With hound in leash and hawk in hood, The Boy of Egremond was seen. * Blithe was his...

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