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appear arms Athens bards bear beauty beneath better blood bosom breast chief Childe claim dare dark dear death deeds dream dwell fair fall fame fate fear feel fire give Greece Greeks hand hath hear heard heart honour hope hour Italy land late least leave less light live look Lord lost mind mountain muse native ne'er never night Note o'er once pass plain poem praise present published race raise rest Review rise rocks roll scarce scene seek seen shade shore sigh sleep smile song sons soul sound Stanza strain tear tell thee thine thing thou thought translation truth turn verse voice wave wild wing wish yield young youth
Seite 214 - WHITE !t while life was in its spring, And thy young Muse just waved her joyous wing. The spoiler came ; and all thy promise fair, Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, When Science...
Seite 235 - SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, ^ Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light ! O'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws, Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.
Seite 74 - Ancient of days ! august Athena ! where, Where are thy men of might, thy grand in soul? Gone, — glimmering through the dream of things that were : First in the race that led to glory's goal, They won, and passed away, — is this the whole?
Seite 85 - To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er, or rarely been ; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean , This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'd.
Seite 175 - And think'st thou, Scott! by vain conceit perchance, On public taste to foist thy stale romance, Though Murray with his Miller may combine To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? No! when the sons of song descend to trade, Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. Let such forego the poet's sacred name, Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame: Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain!
Seite 29 - Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, And marvel men should quit their easy chair, The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain air, And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share.
Seite 115 - I strode through the pine-covered glade. I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch ua Garr.
Seite 125 - What is the worst of woes that wait on age ? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow ? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth, as I am now.
Seite 71 - I had known him ten years, the better half of his life, and the happiest part of mine. In the short space of one month I have lost her who gave me being, and most of those who had made that being tolerable.
Seite 180 - Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, The idiot mother of 'an idiot boy'; A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way, And, like his bard, confounded night with day; So close on each pathetic part he dwells, And each adventure so sublimely tells, That all who view the 'idiot in his glory' Conceive the bard the hero of the story.