The British female poets (Google eBook)

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Lindsay & Blakiston, 1848 - English poetry - 490 pages
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Page 237 - Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set but all Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! THE LOST PLEIAD.
Page 398 - I never more shall see my own, my native land: Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen, at Bingen on the Rhine.
Page 227 - THE boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud though childlike form.
Page 247 - Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free. The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam; And the rocking pines of the forest roared This was their welcome home.
Page 236 - Death ! Day is for mortal care, Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer ; But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.
Page 481 - Sleep soft, beloved !" we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep. But never doleful dream again. Shall break the happy slumber when He giveth His beloved, sleep.
Page 126 - Triumphant from the tomb ! , 3 This day be grateful homage paid, And loud hosannas sung ; Let gladness dwell in every heart, And praise on every tongue. 4 Ten thousand differing lips shall join To hail this welcome morn, Which scatters blessings from its wings To nations yet unborn.
Page 138 - The day is thine, the night also is thine: thou hast prepared the light and the sun. Thou hast set all the borders of the earth: thou hast made summer and winter.
Page 258 - Sweet is the hour of rest ! Pleasant the wind's low sigh, And the gleaming of the west, And the turf whereon we lie ; When the burden and the heat Of labour's task are o'er, And kindly voices greet The tired one at his door. Come to the sunset tree ! The day is past and gone ; The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.
Page 265 - God! The royal eagle darteth On his quarry from the heights, And the stag that knows no master But we, for thy communion, Have sought the mountain sod ; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers

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