The Complete Poetical Works of the Late Miss Lucy Hooper

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Fanshaw, 1848 - American poetry - 407 pages
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Page 37 - Underneath the grave doth lie " As much beauty as could die, ■ Which in life did harbor give " To more virtue than doth live." FROM THE BOSTON TIMES. They do not err, Who say that when a poet dies Nature mourns a worshipper And celebrates his obsequies. Died at Brooklyn, New-York, on Sunday last, Miss Lucy Hooper, aged 24 years.
Page 31 - rest, Life's myriads blending into one— In blank Annihilation blest; ' Dust-atoms of the Infinite— Sparks scattered from the central light, And winning back through mortal pain, Their old unconsciousness again!— No ! I have friends in Spirit-Land— Not shadows in a shadowy band— Not
Page 251 - Leaves have their time to fall, " And flowers to wither at the North Wind's breath,
Page 78 - the hushed lips—my mother, can'st thou brook Longer upon thy victim's face to look 1 Alas! at yestermorn My heart was light, and to the viol's sound I gaily danced, while crowned with summer flowers, And swiftly by me sped the flying hours, And all was joy around : Not death! Oh! mother, could I say thee nay
Page 79 - I may not turn away From the charmed brow, and I have heard his name Even as a prophet by his people spoken— And that high brow, in death, bears seal and token Of one whose words were flame: Oh ! Holy Teacher ! eould'st thou rise and live, Would not these hushed
Page 77 - Mother ! I bring thy gift. Take from my hand the dreaded boon—I pray Take it, the still pale sorrow of the face Hath left upon my soul its living trace. Never to pass away : Since from these lips one word of idle breath Blanched that calm face—oh ! mother, this is death
Page 78 - Oh! mother, could I say thee nay 7 Take from thy daughter's hand thy boon away ! Take it! my heart is sad And the pure forehead hath an icy chill— I dare not touch it, for avenging Heaven Hath shuddering visions to my fancy given, And the pale face appals me, cold and still, With the closed
Page 201 - The harvest ripening in the autumnal sun—■ The golden fruit of suffering's weighty power Within the soul—like soft bells' silvery chime Repeat the tones, if fame may not be won, Or if the heart where thou should'st find a shrine, Breathe forth no blessing on thy lonely way. * Suggested
Page 221 - Yet as the stars, the holy stars of night, Shine out when all is dark, So would I, cheered by hopes more purely bright, Tread still the thorny path whose close is light, If, but at last, the tossed and weary barque Gains the sure haven of her final rest.
Page 244 - Beautiful child! why should'st thou stay ? There is danger near thee,—away ! away! Away ! in thy spotless purity; Nothing can here be a type of thee; The very air as it fans thy brow, May leave a trace on its stainless snow; Lo ! spirits of evil haunt the bowers, And the serpent glides from the trembling

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