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Seite 87 - HAIL to thee, blithe spirit ! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
Seite 52 - They sin who tell us Love can die. With life all other passions fly, All others are but vanity. In Heaven Ambition cannot dwell, Nor Avarice in the vaults of Hell; Earthly these passions of the Earth, They perish where they have their birth ; But Love is indestructible. Its holy flame for ever burneth, From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth...
Seite 118 - Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness: And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts; and choking sighs, Which ne'er might be repeated...
Seite 299 - Ah ! then, if mine had been the painter's hand, To express what then I saw, and add the gleam, The light that never was, on sea or land, The consecration, and the poet's dream...
Seite 129 - Of its tones amongst the leaves? Oh ! is it from the waters, Or from the long tall grass? Or is it from the hollow rocks Through which its breathings pass? Or is it from the voices Of all in one combined, That it wins the tone of mastery? The Wind, the wandering Wind!
Seite 201 - And free, in green Columbia's woods, The hunter's bow is strung. But let the floods rush on ! Let the arrow's flight be sped ! Why should they reck whose task is done? — There slumber England's dead ! The mountain-storms rise high In the snowy Pyrenees, And toss the pine-boughs through the sky, Like rose-leaves on the breeze. But let the storm rage on ! Let the fresh wreaths be shed! For the Roncesvalles' field is won, — There slumber England's dead.
Seite 243 - IF thou hast crush'da flower, The root may not be blighted ; If thou hast quench'da lamp, Once more it may be lighted : But on thy harp, or on thy lute, The string which thou hast broken Shall never in sweet sound again Give to thy touch a token ! If thou hast loosed a bird Whose voice of song could cheer thee, Still, still he may be won From the skies to warble near thee : But if upon the troubled sea Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded, Hope not that wind or wave will bring The treasure back when needed.
Seite 22 - That many a shining head Lies in its glory low. Breathe not those names to-day ! They shall have their praise ere long, And a power all hearts to sway, In ever-burning song.
Seite 30 - in undertones they cry ; "no whisper — not a breath ! The sound that warns thy comrades nigh shall sentence thee to death !" Still at the bayonet's point he stood, and strong to meet the blow ; And shouted, 'midst his rushing blood, "Arm! arm! Auvergne! the foe!