Albion and Erin in poems of Th. Moore, Lord Byron, R. Burns, P.B. Shelley, Th. Campbell, J. Thomson and from Th. Percy's Reliques of ancient English poetry (Google eBook)

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Printed for V. von Zabern, 1851 - Literary Criticism
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Page 358 - And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being ; they become A portion of ourselves as of our time, And look like heralds of eternity...
Page 454 - I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright...
Page 224 - OFT, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me ; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken ; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken ! Thus, in the stilly night. Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.
Page 16 - I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.
Page 38 - THE harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, As if that soul were fled. — So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.
Page 60 - She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking — Ah '. little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking...
Page 394 - Those thou never more may'st see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults perchance thou knowest, All my madness none can know ; All my hopes, where'er thou goest, Wither, yet with thee they go.
Page 346 - It seem'd like me to want a mate, But was not half so desolate, And it was come to love me when None lived to love me so again, And cheering from my dungeon's brink, Had brought me back to feel and think. I know not if it late were free, Or broke its cage to perch on mine, But knowing well captivity, Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine.
Page 378 - A fearful hope was all the world contained ; Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks Extinguished with a crash — and all was black. The brows of men by the despairing light Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits The flashes fell upon them...
Page 354 - It might be months, or years, or days, I kept no count — I took no note, I had no hope my eyes to raise, And clear them of their dreary mote...

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