A Song of Labour, and Other Poems

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Printed at the Advertiser Office, 1873 - 200 Seiten
 

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Seite 14 - He is made one with Nature: There is heard His voice in all her music, from the moan Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird. He is a presence to be felt and known In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, Spreading itself where'er that Power may move Which has withdrawn his being to its own...
Seite 68 - Hurrah, for the life that is in him, And his breath so thick and black ; And hurrah for our fellows, who in their need Could fashion a thing like him — With a heart of fire, and a soul of steel, And a Samson in every limb.
Seite 143 - The beings of the mind are not of clay; Essentially immortal, they create And multiply in us a brighter ray And more beloved existence : that which Fate Prohibits to dull life, in this our state Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, And with a fresher growth replenishing the void.
Seite 70 - Runs the cunning and clasp of the fire. Or, see how he tosses aside the night, And roars in his thirsty wrath, While his one great eye gleams white with rage At the darkness that muffles his path ; And lo ! as the pent-up flame of his heart Flashes out from behind its bars, It gleams like a bolt flung from heaven, and rears A ladder of light to the stars. Talk of the sea flung back in its wrath By a line of unyielding stone, Or the slender clutch of a thread-like bridge, That knits two valleys in...
Seite 69 - I would take them with me on this world's steed, And give him a little rein; Then rush with his clanking hoofs through space, With a wreath of smoke for his mane. I would say to them, as they shook in their fear, " Now what is your paltry book, Or the...
Seite 33 - It seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days that cannot die ; When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting-crook in hand ; and turned my steps...
Seite 71 - And the sinews that work like the shoulders of Jove When he launches a bolt of flame ; And give me that Lilliput rider of his, Stout and wiry and grim, Who can vault on his back as he puffs his pipe, And whisk the breath from him. Then hurrah for our mighty engine, boys ; He may roar and fume along For a hundred years ere a poet arise To shrine him in worthy song; Yet if one with the touch of the gods on his lips, And his heart beating wildly and quick, Should rush into song at this demon of ours,...
Seite 1 - ... us in the after ages wrong, But for ever throb and whisper strength to nerve our fellow kind As they rise to fill our footsteps and the space we leave behind. What though hand and form be rugged? better then for labour's mart— I have never heard that Nature changed the colour of the heart — I'he God above hath made us one in flesh and blood with kings, But the lower use is ours, and all the force of rougher things.
Seite 156 - Then, hurrah! for our higher fellows that work With this thought and its Titan powers, And cut through the jungle of creeds and fools A path for this planet of ours. And hurrah for this nineteenth century time — What the future may grow and be! Ah, God ! to burst up from the slumber of death For one wild moment to see!
Seite 70 - Then away he rush'd to his mission of toil, Wherever lay guiding rods, And the work he could do at each throb of his pulse Flung a blush on the face of the gods. And Atlas himself, when he felt his weight, Bent lower his quaking limb, Then shook himself free from this earth, and left The grand old planet to him. But well can he bear it, this Titan of toil, When his pathway yields to his tread ; And the vigour within him flares up to its height, Till the smoke of his breath grows red ; Then he shrieks...

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