Records of Woman: With Other Poems

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William Blackwood, 1828 - English poetry - 320 pages
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Page 264 - THE breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed ; And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore.
Page 266 - What sought they thus afar ? Bright jewels of the mine ? The wealth of seas? the spoils of war? — They sought a faith's pure shrine...
Page 170 - Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves, And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves.
Page 264 - Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came ; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame : Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear ; — They shook the depth of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Page 199 - O good old man ; how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed ! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat, but for promotion; And having that, do choke their service up Even with the having: it is not so with thee.
Page 290 - Good-night ;" By the smiling eye and the loving tone, Over thy life has the spell been thrown. And bless that gift ! — it hath gentle might, A guardian power and a guiding light. It hath led the freeman forth to stand In the...
Page 169 - THE stately homes of England, How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land ! The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream.
Page 265 - Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea ; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free ! The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared, — This was their welcome home.
Page 300 - Oh, joyous birds, it hath still been so ! Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go ! But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep, And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep. Say, what have ye found in the peasant's cot, Since last ye parted from that sweet spot...

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