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Seite 195 - Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. To Be, contents his natural desire, He asks no Angel's wing, no Seraph's fire; But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company.
Seite 105 - His steps are not upon thy paths— thy fields Are not a spoil for him— thou dost arise And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth — there let him lay.
Seite 308 - Fear no more the frown o' the great, Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe, and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust.
Seite 219 - Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard Celestial voices, to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive...
Seite 274 - In darkness, and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer thro' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee!
Seite 37 - SHE was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn: A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
Seite 311 - Towards spire and tower, midst shadowy elms ascending, Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day ! The halls from old heroic ages grey Pour their fair children forth ; and hamlets low, With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play, Send out their inmates in a happy flow, Like a freed vernal stream.
Seite 267 - I AM not One who much or oft delight To season my fireside with personal talk, — Of friends, who live within an easy walk, Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight : And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright, Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk, These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night. Better than such discourse doth silence long, Long, barren silence...
Seite 312 - Send out their inmates in a happy flow, . Like a freed vernal stream; I may not tread With them those pathways — to the feverish bed Of sickness bound ; yet, O my God ! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath fill'd My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings still'd To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.