The Poets of the West: A Selection of Favourite American Poems, with Memoirs of Their Authors

Portada
S. Low, Son & Company, 1860 - 127 páginas
 

Comentarios de la gente - Escribir un comentario

No encontramos ningún comentario en los lugares habituales.

Otras ediciones - Ver todas

Términos y frases comunes

Pasajes populares

Página 20 - Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave a lustre of midday to objects below ; When what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver so lively and quick I knew in a moment it must be St.
Página 78 - He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies ; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close ; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught ) Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought ; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped...
Página 102 - Hear the loud alarum bells, Brazen bells ! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! In the startled ear of night How they screa,m out their affright ! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire...
Página 74 - There in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star — Excelsior!
Página 21 - He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. A wink of his eye and a twist of his head Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
Página 41 - WHEN breezes are soft and skies are fair, I steal an hour from study and care, And hie me away to the woodland scene, Where wanders the stream with waters of green, As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink Had given their stain to the wave they drink ; And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, Have named the stream from its own fair hue.
Página 67 - When but an idle boy, I sought its 'grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my hand, — Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand!
Página 91 - In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.
Página 74 - Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! — For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
Página 38 - Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil; We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves.

Información bibliográfica