The Last Fruit Off an Old Tree

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E. Moxon, 1853 - 520 Seiten
 

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Seite 246 - For where no hope is left, is left no fear : If there be worse, the expectation more Of worse torments me than the feeling can. I would be at the worst, worst is my port, My harbour, and my ultimate repose ; The end I would attain, my final good.
Seite 249 - Had cheered the face of earth, and dried the wet From drooping plant, or dropping tree : the birds, Who all things now behold more fresh and green, After a night of storm so ruinous...
Seite 246 - Such forces met not, nor so wide a camp, When Agrican with all his northern powers Besieged Albracca, as romances tell, The city of Gallaphrone, from thence to win The fairest of her sex Angelica, His daughter, sought by many prowest knights, Both Paynim, and the peers of Charlemain.
Seite 251 - And the swink'd hedger at his supper sat ; I saw them under a green mantling vine, That crawls along the side of yon small hill, Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots ; Their port was more than human, as they stood : I took it for a faery vision Of some gay creatures of the element, That in the colours of the rainbow live, And play i
Seite 248 - Bowed their stiff necks, loaden with stormy blasts, Or torn up sheer. Ill wast thou shrouded then, O patient Son of God, yet only stood'st Unshaken!
Seite 248 - Gan thunder, and both ends of heaven ; the clouds From many a horrid rift abortive poured Fierce rain with lightning mixed, water with fire In ruin reconciled ; nor slept the winds Within their stony caves, but rushed abroad From the four hinges of the world, and fell On the vexed wilderness, whose tallest pines, Though rooted deep as high, and sturdiest oaks, Bowed their stiff necks, loaden with stormy blasts, Or torn up sheer.
Seite 250 - So saying, he caught him up, and, without wing Of hippogrif, bore through the air sublime, Over the wilderness and o'er the plain; Till underneath them fair Jerusalem, The holy city, lifted high her towers, And higher yet the glorious temple rear'd Her pile, far off appearing like a mount Of alabaster, topt with golden spires...
Seite 448 - So then, I feel not deeply ! if I did, I should have seized the pen and pierced therewith The passive world ! And thus thou reasonest ? Well hast thou known the lover's, not so well The poet's heart : while that heart bleeds, the hand Presses it close. Grief must run on and pass Into near Memory's more quiet shade Before it can compose itself in song. He who is agonized and turns to show His agony to those who sit around, Seizes the pen in vain : thought, fancy, power, Rush back into his bosom ;...
Seite 130 - Eegardiug the occasional in poetry ; is there less merit in taking and treating what is before us, than in seeking and wandering through an open field as we would for mushrooms ? WALTER LANDOR.

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