The poems, sacred, passionate, and humorous, of Nathaniel Parker Willis

Clark, Austin & Smith, 1856 - 352 Seiten

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Seite 31 - Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die, — Thou who wert made so beautifully fair ! That death should settle in thy glorious eye. And leave his stillness in this clustering hair — • How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom...
Seite 32 - Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee ; — And thy dark sin ! — Oh ! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom...
Seite 170 - Thou hast a few names even in Sardis which have not defiled their garments; and they shall walk with me in white: for they are worthy.
Seite 88 - Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, And the trembling throb in its mottled throat; There's a human look in its swelling breast, And the gentle curve of its lowly crest; And I often stop with the fear I feel— He runs so close to the rapid wheel. Whatever is rung on that noisy bell — Chime of the hour or funeral knell — The dove in the belfry must hear it well. When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon — When the sexton cheerily rings for noon — When the clock strikes clear at...
Seite 89 - I LOVE to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old, And my locks are not yet gray...
Seite 92 - And heaved its pillars one by one. 2 He hung its starry roof on high, The broad, illimitable sky ; He spread its pavement, green and bright, And curtained it with morning light. 3 The mountains in their places stood, The sea, the sky, and " all was good ;" And when its first pure praises rang, The
Seite 31 - Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee ! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet ' My father /' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom !
Seite 89 - Or, rising half in his rounded nest, He takes the time to smooth his breast ; Then drops again, with filmed eyes. And sleeps as the last vibration dies. Sweet bird ! I would that I could be A hermit in the crowd like thee ! With wings to fly to wood and glen, Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ; And daily, with unwilling feet, I tread, like thee, the crowded street ; But, unlike me, when day is o'er, Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar ; Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, Canst smooth the feathers...
Seite 88 - When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, Filling the spirit with tones of prayer, — Whatever tale in the bell is heard, He broods on his folded feet...
Seite 30 - The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief, The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, As if he feared the slumberer might stir.

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