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arms Barry Barry Cornwall beau ideal beautiful beneath Bessy brig bright Burnet cheek cold Cousin Rufus dark daughter dear door dream dress earth Eugene Sue eyes face fancy Fanwood father fear feeling fire flowers frigate gaze gentleman German girl grace Graham's Magazine half hand happy head heard heart Heaven hope hour J. H. Adams Julia knew Knim lady Langtree light lips living looked maronnier mind Miss Elizabeth morning mother N. P. Willis nature never night noble o'er OEnopion once Orion pale passed passion Paul Cameron Persis Phillida poem poet poor Quint replied rose sailed seemed Shaw ship Shiverton smile Soberton soul spirit stood sweet tears thee thing thou thought tion trembling truth turned vessel voice wild wind window woman words young
Page 219 - Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals nor forts: The warrior's name would be a name abhorred!
Page 219 - Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, " Peace! " Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies! But beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise.
Page 219 - I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone before us, In long reverberations reach our own. On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, - Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, And loud, amid the universal clamor, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.
Page 219 - THIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms ; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms. Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies...
Page 272 - Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng: Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old; And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime.
Page 133 - He was one of those people whom it is impossible either to hate or to respect. His temper was sweet, his affections Warm, his spirits lively, his passions strong, and his principles weak. His life was spent in sinning and repenting ; in inculcating what was right, and doing what was wrong. In speculation, he was a man of piety and honor ; in practice, he was much of the rake and a little of the swindler.
Page 250 - Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods, With forms that no man can discover For the dews that drip all over; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore; Seas that restlessly aspire, Surging, unto skies of fire; Lakes that endlessly outspread Their lone waters - lone and dead, Their still waters - still and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily.
Page 194 - The Heart — the Heart — there was the little, yet boundless sphere, wherein existed the original wrong, of which the crime and misery of this outward world were merely types.
Page 64 - Appals the gazing mourner's heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; Yes, but for these, and these alone, Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, The first, last look by death revealed...