Irish Poets and NovelistsDenis Oliver Crowley P. J. Thomas, 1892 - 424 páginas |
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Página 6
... sighs , And man , intermingled with angels , is feeling The passionless rapture that comes from the skies . Oh ! that this heart , whose unspeakable treasure Of love hath been wasted so vainly on clay , Like thine , unallured by the ...
... sighs , And man , intermingled with angels , is feeling The passionless rapture that comes from the skies . Oh ! that this heart , whose unspeakable treasure Of love hath been wasted so vainly on clay , Like thine , unallured by the ...
Página 9
... sighing , To know if she were good . Well , she smiled and chatted gaily ; Though we saw in mute despair The hectic brighten daily And the death - dew on her hair . And oft , her wasted fingers Beating time upon the RICHARD D'ALTON ...
... sighing , To know if she were good . Well , she smiled and chatted gaily ; Though we saw in mute despair The hectic brighten daily And the death - dew on her hair . And oft , her wasted fingers Beating time upon the RICHARD D'ALTON ...
Página 10
... sighs , And left the matron there To close the curtains of her eyes And bind her golden hair . Though gifted like Edgar Allen Poe , Williams had none of Poe's weaknesses or failings . He was sober , sedate , benevolent and fervently ...
... sighs , And left the matron there To close the curtains of her eyes And bind her golden hair . Though gifted like Edgar Allen Poe , Williams had none of Poe's weaknesses or failings . He was sober , sedate , benevolent and fervently ...
Página 14
... sigh Shall bear my soul on high , And on chainless wings I fly Through the blue , Earth's latest thought shall be , As I soar above the sea , " Green Erin , dear , to thee Adieu ! " The exiled bard made his home in the New World ...
... sigh Shall bear my soul on high , And on chainless wings I fly Through the blue , Earth's latest thought shall be , As I soar above the sea , " Green Erin , dear , to thee Adieu ! " The exiled bard made his home in the New World ...
Página 24
... sighs . Oh , Kathleen , fairest ! if elfin splendor Hath ever broken my heart's repose , ' Twas in the darkness , ere purely tender , Thy smile , like moonlight o'er ocean , rose . Since first I met thee thou knowest thine are This ...
... sighs . Oh , Kathleen , fairest ! if elfin splendor Hath ever broken my heart's repose , ' Twas in the darkness , ere purely tender , Thy smile , like moonlight o'er ocean , rose . Since first I met thee thou knowest thine are This ...
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Irish Poets and Novelists: Profusely Illustrated and Embracing; Complete ... D. O. Crowley Sin vista previa disponible - 2015 |
Términos y frases comunes
admiration ballad Banim bard battle BATTLE OF BENBURB beauty bless blood bosom bright brother Celt Charles Gavan Duffy D'Alton Williams dark dead dear death Dowling Dublin Dunbui earth Erin Erin's eyes fair Hills fame Father Meehan Fitz-James O'Brien flag flowers friends Gael genius Gerald Gerald Griffin glory grave green Halpine hand hath heart Heaven Hills of Eire hope Hurrah Innisfail Ireland Irish James Clarence Mangan John Banim labor Limerick literary lonely look Lord Lover Mangan McGee memory morning mountain Munster Nation native land ne'er never night noble o'er once patriot brave poem poet poetry priest proud river Lee round Samuel Lover Shamrock shine shore sigh smile Soggarth Aroon song soul spirit sweet sword tears thee thine Thomas D'Arcy McGee thou thunder triumph verses voice wave wild writing wrote young Young Ireland youth
Pasajes populares
Página 407 - THE BELLS OF SHANDON With deep affection And recollection I often think of Those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, In the days of childhood, Fling round my cradle Their magic spells. On this I ponder Where'er I wander And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee, — With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee.
Página 408 - I've heard bells tolling Old Adrian's mole in, Their thunder rolling From the Vatican, And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly.
Página 174 - Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
Página 179 - We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow...
Página 178 - Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
Página 410 - There is a stone there, that whoever kisses, Oh! he never misses to grow eloquent. 'Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber, Or become a member of parliament: A clever spouter he'll sure turn out, or An out-and-outer, "to be let alone," Don't hope to hinder him, or to bewilder him; Sure he's a pilgrim from the Blarney stone!
Página ix - I must do it justice : it was a complete system, full of coherence and consistency ; well digested and well composed in all its parts. It was a machine of wise and elaborate contrivance ; and as well fitted for the oppression, impoverishment, and degradation of a people, and the debasement, in them, of human nature itself, as ever proceeded from the perverted ingenuity of man.
Página 338 - And I have heard songs in the Silence That never shall float into speech ; And I have had dreams in the Valley Too lofty for language to reach. And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley — Ah ! me, how my spirit was stirred ! And they wear holy veils on their faces, Their footsteps can scarcely be heard : They pass through the Valley like Virgins, Too pure for the touch of a word...
Página 178 - By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.
Página 179 - Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring : And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.