The poetical works of N.P. Willis

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George Routledge And Sons [Savill and Edwards, Printers], 1867 - 260 Seiten
 

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Seite 144 - And called her good as fair, For all God ever gave to her She kept with chary care. She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true, For her heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to woo — But honored well are charms to sell If priests the selling do.
Seite 26 - 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 69 - 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 8 - And now depart ! and when Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim, Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him Who, from the tribes of men, Selected thee to feel his chastening rod — Depart! O leper! and forget not God...
Seite 25 - Alas! my noble boy, that thou shouldst 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 164 - BRIGHT be the skies that cover thee, Child of the sunny brow— Bright as the dream flung over thee By all that meets thee now. Thy heart is beating joyously, Thy voice is like a bird's, And sweetly breaks the melody Of thy imperfect words. I know no fount that gushes out As gladly as thy tiny shout. I would that thou mightst ever be As beautiful as now, That Time might ever leave as free Thy yet unwritten brow,— I would life were
Seite 6 - Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof Like an articulate wail, and there, alone, Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. The echoes of the melancholy strain Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, Struggling with weakness, and...
Seite 68 - Thou alone of the feathered race Dost look unscared on the human face; Thou alone, with a wing to flee, Dost love with man in his haunts to be ; And the " gentle dove" Has become a name for trust and love.
Seite 70 - 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 141 - I can give not what men call love, But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above And the Heavens reject not, The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow...

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