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Poems, Narrative and Lyrical, Required for College Entrance
Robert P. (Robert Porter) B. St John
Keine Leseprobe verfügbar - 2016
Arqua Athens ballads beautiful blood breast breath brow Browning's Byron character charms Childe Harold CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE Chillon classical dead death deep Deserted Village dungeon dust E. V. LUCAS earth England English Essays Evelyn Hope eyes fame famous feeling galloped glory Goldsmith grave Gray hand hath heart heaven hero Hobhouse human immortal Italian Italy King Charles lake Last Duchess lived Lyrical Macmillan Matthew Arnold mind mother mountains nature never night o'er Oliver Goldsmith once pass patron Persia Petrarch Pheidippides poem poet poet's poetry praise pride prison PRISONER OF CHILLON proud Robert Browning rock romantic Rome round ruin scene Shakespeare's ship smiling song Sordello soul Sparta stanza story sweet thee thine THOMAS GRAY thou thought tomb tree twas Venice verse wall waters Westminster Abbey word Wordsworth wrote
Seite 30 - Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay — There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was, and stern to view ; I knew him well, and every truant knew: Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he...
Seite 116 - He heard it, but he heeded not, — his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away. He recked not of the life he lost, nor prize; But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother, — he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday!
Seite 6 - No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield ! How...
Seite 132 - Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime, The image of Eternity, the throne Of the invisible,— even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
Seite 131 - The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Seite 32 - Yes, let the rich deride, the proud disdain These simple blessings of the lowly train; To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm than all the gloss of art. Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 255 The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.
Seite 116 - I see before me the Gladiator lie : He leans upon his hand ; his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his drooped head sinks gradually low : And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now The arena swims around him ; he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.
Seite 24 - How often have I blest the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old surveyed; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round.
Seite 34 - Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! Sure these denote one universal joy ! Are these thy serious thoughts ? — Ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue...
Seite 29 - Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won . Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began.