The Living Authors of England

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D. Appleton & Company, 1849 - Authors, English - 316 pages
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Page 130 - TIRED Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep ! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where Fortune smiles ; the wretched he forsakes ; Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe, And lights on lids unsullied with a tear.
Page 80 - DAY ! Faster and more fast, O'er night's brim, day boils at last; Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim Where spurting and suppressed it lay ; For not a froth-flake touched the rim Of yonder gap in the solid gray Of the eastern cloud, an hour away ; But forth one wavelet, then another, curled, Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, Rose, reddened, and its seething breast Flickered...
Page 74 - Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy; You hardly could suspect — *> (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. "Well...
Page 51 - THERE is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro...
Page 51 - All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil ? Is there any peace...
Page 233 - There's a Divinity that shapes our ends, Rough hew them as we may.
Page 237 - Eternity, and some gleam of the latter peering through. 'Highest of all Symbols are those wherein the Artist or Poet has risen into Prophet, and all men can recognise a present God, and worship the same: I mean religious Symbols.
Page 90 - Howe'er it be, it seems to me, Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.
Page 73 - You know, we French stormed Ratisbon : A mile or so away On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day ; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind. Just as perhaps he mused, " My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall...
Page 43 - Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death. " 'Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, Oh life, not death, for which we pant ; More life, and fuller, that I want.

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