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Allan Cunningham appear auld beautiful better birds Boabdil called character Cherokee church clan Mackay Cravat cuckoo dark death delightful Edinburgh Edinburgh Review Editor English engraved eyes fair favour feel frae French friends genius ginal give Glasgow Greenock hand happy heard heart heaven honour hope Innerleithen interesting Italy King lady Lady Morgan land language light Literary Journal living London look Lord Lord Byron Madame Vestris manner ment mind Miss nature never night o'er once original person pleasure poem poet poetry present racter readers remarkable round scarcely scene Scotland Scottish seems seen sing Sir Walter Scott smile song soul spirit story style sweet talent taste Theatre thee thing Thomas Hood thou thought tion truth volume whole words write young
Page 131 - That make the meadows green ; and, pour'd round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun. The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.
Page 131 - She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house...
Page 131 - Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image.
Page 131 - Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there ! And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone.
Page 131 - There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, There's a smile on the fruit and a smile on the flower, And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea.
Page 131 - So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Page 131 - Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements; To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon.
Page 131 - Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee.
Page 16 - At the end of the seventeenth and the beginning of the eighteenth century...
Page 225 - Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain. Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again, And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain!