How to read well in public and private, with readings from the best poets

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1873
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Page 176 - An hour passed on — the Turk awoke; That bright dream was his last ; He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, " To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek...
Page 177 - They fought like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain; They conquered; but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won, Then saw in death his eyelids close, Calmly as to a night's repose— Like flowers at set of sun.
Page 159 - On a rock, whose haughty brow, Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet stood ; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air) And with a Master's hand, and Prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.
Page 67 - Smoothed up with snow; and, what is land unknown, What water, of the still unfrozen spring, In the loose marsh or solitary lake, Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils.
Page 182 - I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun.
Page 182 - The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.
Page 179 - Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the Joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate and checks her tears. And she, the mother of thy boys. Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried Joys, And even she who gave thee birth, Will by their pilgrim-circled hearth Talk of thy doom without a sigh: For thou art freedom's now and fame's, One of the few, the immortal names, That...
Page 43 - Where the dead and dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, Somebody's Darling was borne one day — Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave, Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face, Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave, The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.
Page 117 - Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright ; Ho ! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night.
Page 128 - And in at the windows, and in at the door, And through the walls helter-skelter they pour, And down from the ceiling, and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, From within and without, from above and below, And all at once to the Bishop they go.

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