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Seite 259 - And slight withal may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever : it may be a sound — A tone of music, — summer's eve — or spring, A flower — the wind — the Ocean — which shall wound, Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound ; XXIV.
Seite 60 - Hath pillow'd oft this aching head ; A mouth which smiles on me alone, An eye whose tears with mine are shed. There are two hearts whose movements thrill In unison so closely sweet ! That, pulse to pulse responsive still, They both must heave — or cease to beat.
Seite 59 - There is a mystic thread of life So dearly wreathed with mine alone, That destiny's relentless knife At once must sever both or none. There is a form on which these eyes Have often gazed with fond delight ; By day that form their joy supplies, And dreams restore it through the night. There is...
Seite 194 - Song is sung, to a dismal kind of music 0, let us howl some heavy note, Some deadly dogged howl, Sounding, as from the threatening throat Of beasts and fatal fowl! As ravens, screech-owls, bulls, and bears, We'll bell, and bawl our parts, Till irksome noise have cloyed your ears.
Seite 259 - But ever and anon of griefs subdued There comes a token like a Scorpion's sting, Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; And slight withal may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever...
Seite 172 - Farewell the tranquil mind ! farewell content ! Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars, That make ambition virtue ! O, farewell! Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal banner; and all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war ! And O you mortal engines, whose rude throats The .immortal Jove's dread clamours counterfeit, Farewell ! Othello's occupation's gone ! logo.
Seite 195 - I'll draw it nearer by a perspective, or make a glass that shall set all the world on fire upon an instant. I cannot sleep; my pillow is stuffed with a litter of porcupines.
Seite 20 - Page had poisoned him !—In dread they turned To where the murderer was : she had not moved, But stood with fixed eyes; the clouds of death Were on her face — she too had pledged the cup ! THE LOVER'S ROCK. " Oh why should Fate such pleasure have, Life's dearest bands untwining; Or why so sweet a flower as love Depend on Fortune's shining ? This world's wealth, when I think upon't, Is pride and a' the lave on't; Fie, fie on silly coward man, That he should be the slave on't."—BURNS.
Seite 46 - Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, Find joy within her broken bower ? No: gayer insects fluttering by Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, And lovelier things have mercy shown To every failing but their own, And every wo a tear can claim Except an erring sister's shame.