Songs of Three CenturiesJohn Greenleaf Whittier J.R. Osgood, 1875 - 352 psl. |
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xii psl.
... THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR THOU ART , O God !. Thomas Moore 66 66 124 124 George Gordon ( Lord Byron ) 125 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB 66 66 66 66 125 THE LAKE OF GENEVA . 66 66 66 66 126 MONT BLANC ... 66 ...
... THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR THOU ART , O God !. Thomas Moore 66 66 124 124 George Gordon ( Lord Byron ) 125 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB 66 66 66 66 125 THE LAKE OF GENEVA . 66 66 66 66 126 MONT BLANC ... 66 ...
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... Thou who dry'st the Mourner's Tear . 124 PHELPS , ELIZABETH STUART . All the Rivers Vale of Avoca , The 124 Thou art , O God ! MORRIS , WILLIAM . . 124 On the Bridge of Sighs PIATT , JOHN JAMES . The Morning Street March · 297 PIATT ...
... Thou who dry'st the Mourner's Tear . 124 PHELPS , ELIZABETH STUART . All the Rivers Vale of Avoca , The 124 Thou art , O God ! MORRIS , WILLIAM . . 124 On the Bridge of Sighs PIATT , JOHN JAMES . The Morning Street March · 297 PIATT ...
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... thou must give the lie . Tell age it daily wasteth , Tell honor how it alters , Tell beanty how she blasteth , Tell favor how she falters : And as they shall reply , Give every one the lie . Tell wit how much it wrangles In tickle ...
... thou must give the lie . Tell age it daily wasteth , Tell honor how it alters , Tell beanty how she blasteth , Tell favor how she falters : And as they shall reply , Give every one the lie . Tell wit how much it wrangles In tickle ...
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... thou winter wind , Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude ; Thy tooth is not so keen , Because thou art not seen , Although thy breath be rude . Freeze , freeze , thou bitter sky , That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot : Though ...
... thou winter wind , Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude ; Thy tooth is not so keen , Because thou art not seen , Although thy breath be rude . Freeze , freeze , thou bitter sky , That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot : Though ...
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... 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 . Fear no more the lightning flash , Nor the all - dreaded ...
... 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 . Fear no more the lightning flash , Nor the all - dreaded ...
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angels beauty BEGONE DULL CARE bells beneath bird blessed bliss bonnie Braes breast breath bright busk calm Christabel clouds dark dead dear death deep doth dream earth EDMUND SPENSER Edom eternal eyes face fair fear flowers frae Glenlogie glory golden grace grave green Grongar Hill hand hast hath hear heard heart heaven hill holy hour Hymn Inchcape Rock JOHN BYROM Kilmeny kiss lady land lassie light live Lochaber lonely look Lord maun mind morning mourn ne'er never night o'er praise rest rose round Saint Agnes SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE scorn shade shine shore sigh sing sleep smile soft song sorrow soul sound spirit spring stars sweet tears tell thee thine thou art thought tree unto vale voice wandering waves weary weel ween weep wild WILLIAM SHENSTONE wind wings Yarrow
Populiarios ištraukos
125 psl. - But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
66 psl. - Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all: And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
209 psl. - Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
30 psl. - GOING TO THE WARS Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour more.
125 psl. - For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
160 psl. - With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags Plying her needle and thread Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, Would that its tone could reach the rich ! She sang this "Song of the Shirt.
223 psl. - Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea,
37 psl. - The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
97 psl. - No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay...
223 psl. - Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!