The Poets and Poetry of the West: With Biographical and Critical Notices

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Follett, Foster, 1864 - American literature - 688 pages
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Page 566 - Twas his own that struck the blow — His who, pillowed on thy bosom, Turned aside from glory's ray — His who, drunk with thy caresses, Madly threw a world away.
Page 122 - not only witty in himself, but the cause that wit is in other men.
Page 306 - may go and play," While I manage the world by myself. But harness me down with your iron bands, Be sure of your curb and rein, For I scorn the strength of your puny hands As the tempest scorns a chain.
Page 566 - Where the noble spouse, Octavia, Weeps within her widowed home, Seek her ; say the gods bear witness, Altars, augurs, circling wings, That her blood, with mine commingled, Yet shall mount the thrones of kings.
Page 361 - In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!
Page 681 - The silent orchard aisles are sweet With smell of ripening fruit. Through the sere grass, in shy retreat, Flutter, at coming feet, The robins strange and mute. There is no wind to stir the leaves, The harsh leaves overhead ; Only the querulous cricket grieves, And shrilling locust weaves A song of Summer dead.
Page 213 - Lake a woman's soft bosom it rose and it fell; While its light sparkling waves, stealing laughingly o'er, When they saw the fair rainbow, knelt down on the shore. No sweet hymn ascended, no murmur of prayer, Yet I felt that the spirit of worship was there, And bent my young head, in devotion and love, 'Neath the form of the angel, that floated above.
Page 361 - Trust no future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead past bury its dead! Act, — act in the living present! Heart within, and GOD o'erhead!
Page 309 - Then, up with our flag !—let it stream on the air; Though our fathers are cold in their graves, They had hands that could strike, they had souls that could dare And their sons were not born to be slaves. Up, up with that banner! where'er it may call, Our millions shall rally around, And a nation of freemen that moment shall fall When its stars shall be trailed on the ground.
Page 139 - Faster, along the plain, Moves now the shade, and on the meadow's edge : The kine are forth again, The bird flits in the hedge. Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun. Welcome, mild eve ! — the sultry day is done. Pleasantly...

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