The Poets and Poetry of America

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Carey and Hart, 1843 - American poetry - 476 pages

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Page 475 - through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming' And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there ; О ! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? On the
Page 176 - Strike—till the last arm'd foe expires ; Strike—for your altars and your fires ; Strike—for the green graves of your sires ; God—and your native land !" They fought—like brave men, long and well ; They piled that ground with Moslem slain ; They conquer'd—but Bozzahis fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades
Page 176 - And thou art terrible—the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, are thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word ; And in its hollow tones are
Page 238 - and sky, Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then beauty is its own excuse for being. Why, thou wert there, 0, rival of the rose ! I never thought to ask, I never knew, But in my simple ignorance suppose
Page 127 - groves were God's first temples. Ere man learn'd To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them,—ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The Bound of anthems ; in the darkling wood, Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down, And
Page 441 - How dear to this heart are the scones of my childhood ! When fond recollection presents them to view; The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, The
Page 176 - with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee—there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of
Page 238 - humble-bee ! fine humble-bee ! Where thou art is clime for me, Let them sail for Porto Rique, Far-off heats through seas to seek,— I will follow thee alone, Thou animated torrid zone ! Zig-zag steercr, desert cheerer, Let me chase thy waving lines, Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, Singing over shrubs and vines. Flower-bells, Honey'd cells,—
Page 298 - 0, weary hearts ! 0, slumbering eyes ! O, drooping souls, whose destinies Are fraught with fear and pain, Ye shall be loved again ! No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds unto its own. Responds—as if, with unseen wings, A breath from heaven had touch'd its string
Page 238 - Telling of countless sunny hours, Long days, and solid banks of flowers, Of gulfs of sweetness without bound In Indian wildernesses found, Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure. Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. Aught unsavoury or unclean Hath my insect never seen, But violets, and bilberry bells, Maple sap, and daffodels. Clover,

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