Hyperion: A Romance (Google eBook)

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John B. Alden, 1885 - Europe - 273 pages
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Page 239 - He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know At first sight if the bird be flown; But what fair well or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown.
Page 222 - Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar?
Page 155 - Fair stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry ; But, putting to the main, At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Landed King Harry...
Page 180 - My panting side was charged when I withdrew To seek a tranquil death in distant shades.^ There was I found by one who had himself Been hurt by the archers.
Page 180 - INTO the Silent Land ! Ah ! who shall lead us thither ? Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. Who leads us with a gentle hand, Thither, O thither, Into the Silent Land...
Page 180 - O Land ! For all the broken-hearted The mildest herald by our fate allotted, Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand To lead us with a gentle hand Into the land of the great Departed, Into the Silent Land ;
Page 157 - No life, my honest scholar, no life so happy and so pleasant as the life of a well-governed angler; for when the lawyer is swallowed up with business, and the statesman is preventing or contriving plots, then we sit on cowslip banks, hear the birds sing, and possess ourselves in as much quietness as these silent silver streams, which we now see glide so quietly by us.
Page 239 - Like stars upon some gloomy grove, Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest After the sun's remove. I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days; 10 My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmerings and decays.
Page 38 - Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze ; And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore.
Page 158 - Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preachers, Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book, Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers From loneliest nook. Floral apostles, that, in dewy splendor, " Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," O, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender, Your lore sublime.

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