Beautiful poetry, selected by the ed. of The Critic, Volume 31855 |
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Page 165
... Come ... SYDNEY , SIR PHILIP . To the Moon ... ... ... ... ... : page 28 213 ... .... ... 94 329 ... 491 ... ... ... ... ... 244 TALFOURD , SIR T. N. Love Ambition ... Woman's Duty Use of Sorrow ... ... ... ... ... Ion ... ... TENNYSON ...
... Come ... SYDNEY , SIR PHILIP . To the Moon ... ... ... ... ... : page 28 213 ... .... ... 94 329 ... 491 ... ... ... ... ... 244 TALFOURD , SIR T. N. Love Ambition ... Woman's Duty Use of Sorrow ... ... ... ... ... Ion ... ... TENNYSON ...
Page 174
... come past the stars of the Lion To point us the path to the skies— To the Lethean peace of the skies- Come up , in despite of the Lion , To shine on us with her bright eyes- Come up through the lair of the Lion , With love in her ...
... come past the stars of the Lion To point us the path to the skies— To the Lethean peace of the skies- Come up , in despite of the Lion , To shine on us with her bright eyes- Come up through the lair of the Lion , With love in her ...
Page 178
... come and go ! How beautiful , when light Hath fled ; and leaf and stream Rest in a quiet dream . Within the curtaining shadows of the Night ; While troops of stars look down with dewy rays , And flowers droop their eyes beneath their ...
... come and go ! How beautiful , when light Hath fled ; and leaf and stream Rest in a quiet dream . Within the curtaining shadows of the Night ; While troops of stars look down with dewy rays , And flowers droop their eyes beneath their ...
Page 184
... comes tinkling down its side ; From out the trees the sabbath bell Rings cheerful far and wide , Mingling its sounds with bleatings of the flocks That feed about the vale amongst the rocks . Nor holy bell , nor pastoral bleat , In ...
... comes tinkling down its side ; From out the trees the sabbath bell Rings cheerful far and wide , Mingling its sounds with bleatings of the flocks That feed about the vale amongst the rocks . Nor holy bell , nor pastoral bleat , In ...
Page 185
... Come listen how from crime this isle was won . PROVIDENCE . From POPE's immortal Essay on Man . SEE through this air , this ocean , and this earth , All matter quick , and bursting into birth . Above , how high progressive life may go ...
... Come listen how from crime this isle was won . PROVIDENCE . From POPE's immortal Essay on Man . SEE through this air , this ocean , and this earth , All matter quick , and bursting into birth . Above , how high progressive life may go ...
Common terms and phrases
Advertisements BARRY CORNWALL BEAUTIFUL POETRY beneath bird blue breast breath bright brow cheek Choice Passages Clerical Journal cloth cloud cold Consisting of Choice creeping everywhere dark death deep doth dream earth EBENEZER ELLIOTT Edited by H. G. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING ESSEX STREET eyes fair flowers Fontenoy gaze golden grave green H. G. ADAMS hath hear heard heart heaven hills Holy Orders hour JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL JOHN CROCKFORD Lady leaves light London Literary Journal lonely look moon morning N. P. WILLIS never night numbers o'er pale Philaster poem poet price 3d rose round S. T. COLERIDGE SACRED SACRED POETS shade shadow sigh silent sing sleep smile soft song sorrow soul spirit spring stars Strand stream sweet tears thee thine things thou art thought trees United Kingdom University Chronicle voice waves weary wild WILLIAM ALLINGHAM wind
Popular passages
Page 200 - I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles.
Page 198 - She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.
Page 189 - With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies ; How silently ; and with how wan a face ! What ! may it be, that even in heavenly place That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries...
Page 215 - Or the seven stars to light you, Or the polar ray to right you ; But you never may behold Little John or Robin bold ; Never one, of all the clan, Thrumming on an empty can Some old hunting ditty, while He doth his green way beguile To fair Hostess Merriment Down beside the pasture Trent, For he left the merry tale Messenger for spicy ale.
Page 208 - THE sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet; The westland wind is hush and still, The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the" landscape to mine eye Bears those bright hues that once it bore, Though evening with her richest dye Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore. With listless look along the plain I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane Of Melrose rise in ruined pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air, The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree...
Page 194 - Morea's hills the setting sun; not as in northern climes obscurely bright, but one unclouded blaze of living light : o'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws, gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows. On old jEgina's rock and Idra's isle the god of gladness sheds his parting smile; o'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, though there his altars are no more divine.
Page 198 - None like her, none. Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering talk Seem'd her light foot along the garden walk, And shook my heart to think she comes once more But even then I "heard her close the door, The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is gone.
Page 221 - Call for the robin redbreast, and the -wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Page 200 - I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river...
Page 194 - Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun: Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light!