Xeniola: Poems

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Milliken and Son, 1837 - German poetry - 174 pages
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Page 173 - ... few minutes to overwhelm us ; and small quantities of sand did actually more than once reach us. Again they would retreat so as to be almost out of sight, their tops reaching to the very clouds.
Page 28 - I sat alone in my cottage, The midnight needle plying; I feared for my child, for the rush's light In the socket now was dying. There came a hand to my lonely latch, Like the wind at midnight moaning; I knelt to pray, but rose again, For I heard my little boy groaning. I...
Page 27 - And my little boy's eyes, as he heard the song, Smiled with a sweet soft splendour. My little boy lay on my bosom, While his soul the song was quaffing; The joy of his soul had ting'd his cheek, And his heart and his eye were laughing.
Page 6 - Still trembled frum the lip, and o'er the souls Of those who listened shed a deeper gloom — In hours of such most mournful gaiety, Oh, was there not even then a lingering hope, That flitted fearfully, like parent birds, Fast fluttering o'er their desolated nest ? " Mourn not for her who died ! — she lived as saints Might pray to live — she died as Christians die; — There was no earthward struggle of the heart, No shuddering terror — no reluctant sigh. They, who beheld her dying, fear not...
Page 70 - ... me, at this lone hour, The wood-dove's note from yonder natural bower, Though winning sweet, is sad ; — Calmly the cool wind heaves The elm's broad boughs, whose shadows seem Like some deep vault below the stream : — The melancholy beech still grieves, As in the scattering gale are shed . Her red and wrinkled leaves : — And, from the yew, by yon forgotten grave, Hark ! the lone robin mourning o'er the dead.
Page 18 - As there had been none such. My muse doth not delight Me as she did before; My hand and pen are not in plight, As they have been of yore. For reason me denies This youthly idle rhyme; And day by day to me she cries, 'Leave off these toys in time.
Page 30 - IF I might choose where my tired limbs shall lie When my task here is done, the oak's green crest Shall rise above my grave — a little mound, Raised in some cheerful village cemetery. And I could wish that, with unceasing sound, A lonely mountain rill was murmuring by In music through the long soft twilight hours. And let the hand of her whom I love best Plant round the bright green...
Page 30 - Should rise above my grave — a little mound Raised in some cheerful village-cemetery — And I could wish, that, with unceasing sound A lonely mountain rill was murmuring by — In music— through the long soft twilight hours : And let the hand of her, whom I love best, Plant round the bright green grave those fragrant flowers, In whose deep bells the wild-bee loves to rest — And should the robin, from some neighbouring tree, Pour his enchanted song — oh, softly tread, For sure, if aught of...
Page 81 - Moves slowly, and upon the moonlight ground The shadow casts an ever-varying stain ; — The sound of waters, too, is here, — that stream, Whose banks I love to call the poet's haunt, Soothes with its ceaseless murmur, — opposite My window is a poplar, all whose leaves Flutter most musical ; — the moonshine there Plays strange vagaries, — now a flood of light Spreads like a sheet of snow along the plain, — Now all is darkness, save that through the boughs On the green circle, like a summer...
Page 5 - They did not dim its charms, but suited well The stillness of the scene, like thoughts that move Silently o'er the soul or linger there, Shedding a tender twilight pensiveness ! This is an idle song ! — I cannot tell What charms were hers who died. — I cannot tell What grief is theirs, whose spirits weep for her ! Oh ! many were the agonies of prayer, And many were the mockeries of hope ; And many a heart, that loved the weak delusion, Looked forward for the rosy smiles of Health, And many a...

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