« AnteriorContinuar »
The moon of Mahomet
Arose, and it shall set;
The world's great age begins anew,
The golden years return,
Hellas. Line 221.
What! alive, and so bold, O earth?
Written on hearing the News of the Death of Napoleon. All love is sweet, Given or returned. Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever. They who inspire it most are fortunate, As I am now; but those who feel it most Are happier still.1
Prometheus Unbound. Act ii. Sc. 5.
Those who inflict must suffer, for they see
Julian and Maddalo. Line 482. Most wretched men
Are cradled into poetry by wrong:
I could lie down like a tired child,
Which I have borne, and yet must bear.
Stanzas written in Dejection, near Naples. Stanza 4.
Dull, oh so dull, so very dull!
Dull, — beyond all conception, dull.
Peter Bell the Third. Part vii. xii.
1 The pleasure of love is in loving. We are much happier in the passion we feel than in that we inspire. ROCHEFOUCAULD: Maxim 259.
2 See Butler, page 216.
A lovely lady, garmented in light
Music, when soft voices die,
The Witch of Atlas. Stanza 5.
I love tranquil solitude
As is quiet, wise, and good.
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
Of some world far from ours,
Music, when soft Voices die.
Rarely, rarely comest Thou.
Are one. To Jane. The keen Stars were twinkling.
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
You lie under a mistake,1
For this is the most civil sort of lie
That can be given to a man's face. I now
How wonderful is Death!
Death and his brother Sleep.
Translation of Calderon's Magico Prodigioso. Scene i.
Queen Mab. i.
Power, like a desolating pestilence,
1 See Swift, page 292.
Heaven's ebon vault
Studded with stars unutterably bright,
Queen Mab. iv.
Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present.1 A Defence of Poetry.
J. HOWARD PAYNE. 1792-1852.
'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; 2 A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which sought through the world is ne'er met with elsewhere.
An exile from home splendour dazzles in vain,
SEBA SMITH. 1792-1868.
The cold winds swept the mountain-height,
A mother wandered with her child:
The Snow Storm.
1 See Coleridge, page 504.
2 Home is home, though it be never so homely - CLARKE: Parœmiologia, p. 101. (1639.)
JOHN KEBLE. 1792-1866.
The trivial round, the common task, Would furnish all we ought to ask. Why should we faint and fear to live alone, Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die? Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own, Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh. The Christian Year. Twenty-fourth Sunday after Trinity.
'Tis sweet, as year by year we lose
Abide with me from morn till eve,
FELICIA D. HEMANS. 1794-1835.
The stately homes of England, -
Burial of the Dead.
The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast.
The Homes of England.
What sought they thus afar?
Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.
Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod:
They have left unstained what there they found, — Freedom to worship God.
Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.
Through the laburnum's dropping gold
They grew in beauty side by side,
Alas for love, if thou wert all,
And naught beyond, O Earth!
The Graves of a Household.
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Come to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;
In the busy haunts of men.
Leaves have their time to fall,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Tyrolese Evening Song.
Tale of the Secret Tribunal. Part i.
Siege of Valencia. Scene ix.