The plea of the midsummer fairies: Hero and Leander, Lycus the Centaur, and other poems

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Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown, and Green, 1827 - 222 pages
 

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Page 188 - I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow. I remember, I remember The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from- Heaven Than when I was a boy.
Page 186 - Tis nothing but the heron's cry, And plover's answer shrill ; My child is flown on wilder wings, Than they have ever spread, And I may even walk a waste That widened when she fled.
Page 158 - Fair Ines had always, for me, an inexpressible charm : O saw ye not fair Ines ? She's gone into the West, To dazzle when the sun is down. And rob the world of rest : She took our daylight with her, The smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on her cheek, And pearls upon her breast.
Page 187 - I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I REMEMBER, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn : He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away ! I remember, I remember...
Page 171 - Where are the songs of Summer ? — With the sun, Oping the dusky eyelids of the South, Till shade and silence waken up as one, And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth. Where are the merry birds ? — Away, away, On panting wings through the inclement skies, Lest owls should prey Undazzled at noon-day, And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.
Page 159 - Alas, alas, fair Ines, She went away with song, With music waiting on her steps, And shoutings of the throng; But some were sad, and felt no mirth, But only music's wrong, In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell, To her you've loved so long.
Page 206 - s in the wane, There is nothing adorning, The night has no eve, And the day has no morning ;Cold winter gives warning. The rivers run chill, The red sun is sinking, And I am grown old, And life is fast shrinking ;— Here's enow for sad thinking ! ODE TO MELANCHOLY.
Page 173 - There is enough of wither'd everywhere To make her bower,— and enough of gloom ; There is enough of sadness to invite, If only for the rose that died, whose doom Is Beauty's,— she that with the living bloom Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light ; There is enough of sorrowing, and quite Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear, — Enough of chilly droppings from her bowl ; Enough of fear and shadowy despair, To frame her cloudy prison for the soul 1 SONNET. IT is not death...
Page 182 - Deeply ripened ;— such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn. Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell, But long lashes veiled a light, That had else been all too bright.
Page 153 - The meeting sweet that made me thrill, The sweetmeats almost sweeter still, No ' satis ' to the ' jams ! '— When that I was a tiny boy My days and nights were full of joy, My mates were blithe and kind ! No wonder that I sometimes sigh, And dash the tear-drop from my eye, To cast a look behind ! FAIR IXE3.

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