English Songs: And Other Small Poems

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Ticknor, Reed, and Fields, 1851 - English poetry - 387 pages
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Page 1 - THE SEA. The Sea ! the Sea ! the open Sea ! The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round ; It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies ; Or like a cradled creature lies.
Page 2 - And a mother she was, and is, to me ; For I was born on the open sea ! The waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when I was born ; And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled...
Page 31 - A THOUSAND miles from land are we, Tossing about on the roaring sea ; From billow to bounding billow cast, Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast : The sails are scattered abroad, like weeds, The strong masts shake, like quivering reeds, The mighty cables, and iron chains, The hull, which all earthly strength disdains, They strain and they crack, and hearts like stone Their natural hard, proud strength disown. Up and down ! Up and down ! From the base...
Page 72 - Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate; They are each unto each a pride— Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange dark fate Hath rent them from all beside!
Page 21 - On thee he leaves; Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves; Some fears, — a soft regret For...
Page 143 - I have read of a bird, which hath a face like, and yet will prey upon, a man : who coming to the water to drink, and finding there by reflection, that he had killed one like himself, pineth away by degrees, and never afterwards enjoyeth itself, f Such is in some sort the condition of Sir Edward.
Page 52 - WE are born ; we laugh ; we weep ; We love ; we droop ; we die ! Ah ! wherefore do we laugh or weep ? Why do we live, or die ? Who knows that secret deep ? Alas, not I...
Page 32 - O'er the Deep ! O'er the Deep ! Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish sleep, Outflying the blast and the driving rain, The Petrel telleth her tale — in vain ; For the mariner curseth the warning bird Who bringeth him news of the...
Page 19 - SING ! — Who sings To her who weareth a hundred rings ? Ah, who is this lady fine ? The VINE, boys, the VINE ! The mother of mighty Wine. A roamer is she O'er wall and tree, And sometimes very good company.
Page 229 - Methinks I love all common things — The common air, the common flower ; The dear, kind, common thought, that springs From hearts that have no other dower...

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