The Luggie: And Other Poems

الغلاف الأمامي
Macmillan, 1862 - 151 من الصفحات
 

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الصفحة 151 - The Golden Treasury of the Best Songs and Lyrical Poems in the English Language. Selected and arranged, with Notes, by FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE.
الصفحة 7 - MASSON.— Essays, Biographical and Critical; chiefly on the English PoetS. By DAVID MASSON, MA Professor of English Literature in University College, London. Svo. cloth, 12s. 6d. MASSON.— British Novelists and their Styles ; being a Critical Sketch of the History of British Prose Fiction.
الصفحة 4 - TOCQUEVILLE. — Memoir, Letters, and Remains of Alexis de Tocqueville. Translated from the French by the Translator of "Napoleon's Correspondence with King Joseph.
الصفحة 96 - MY EPITAPH Below lies one whose name was traced in sand — He died, not knowing what it was to live : Died while the first sweet consciousness of manhood And maiden thought electrified his soul: Faint beatings in the calyx of the rose. Bewildered reader, pass without a sigh In a proud sorrow ! There is life with God, In other kingdom of a sweeter air; In Eden every flower is blown. Amen.
الصفحة 151 - THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF THE BEST SONGS AND LYRICAL POEMS IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. Selected and arranged, with Notes, by FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE.
الصفحة 66 - God ! That I die young, and make no further moans ; That, underneath the unrespective sod, In unescutcheoned privacy, my bones Shall crumble soon, — then give me strength to bear The last convulsive throe of too sweet breath ! I tremble from the edge of life, to dare The dark and fatal leap, having no faith, No glorious yearning for the Apocalypse; But, like a child that in the night-time cries For light, I cry; forgetting the eclipse Of knowledge and our human destinies. O peevish and uncertain...
الصفحة 70 - Last night, on coughing slightly with sharp pain, There came arterial blood, and with a sigh Of absolute grief I cried in bitter vein. That drop is my death-warrant: I must die. Poor meagre life is mine, meagre and poor! Rather a piece of childhood thrown away; An adumbration faint; the overture To stifled music; year that ends in May; The sweet beginning of a tale unknown; A dream unspoken; promise unfulfilled; A morning with no noon, a rose unblown — All its deep rich vermilion crushed and killed...
الصفحة 84 - The hedge-row leaves are stamp'd, and, all forgot, The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn. Autumn, among her drooping marigolds, Weeps all her garnered sheaves, and empty folds, And dripping orchards — plundered and forlorn. The season is a dead one, and I die! "No more, no more for me the spring shall make A resurrection in the earth and take The death from out her heart — O God, I die!
الصفحة 7 - No sun, yet all around that inward light Which is in purity, — a soft moonshine, The silvery dimness of a happy dream. How beautiful ! afar on moorland ways, Bosomed by mountains, darkened by huge glens, (Where the lone altar raised by Druid hands Stands like a mournful phantom), hidden clouds Let fall soft beauty, till each green fir branch Is plumed and tassel'd, till each heather stalk Is delicately fringed. The sycamores, Thro' all their mystical entanglement Of boughs, are draped with silver.
الصفحة 142 - The soul to adoration. First I heard A low, thick lubric gurgle, soft as love, Yet sad as memory, through the silence poured Like starlight. But the mood intenser grows, Precipitate rapture quickens, move on move Lucidly linked together, till the close.

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