The Poems of William Collins

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Ginn & Company, 1898 - 135 من الصفحات
 

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الصفحة 60 - Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round ; Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound : And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
الصفحة 64 - Nature's child, again adieu! The genial meads, assigned to bless Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom, Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress With simple hands thy rural tomb. Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes: 'O! vales and wild woods,' shall he say, 'In yonder grave your Druid lies!' (>749) 256 An Ode on the Popular Superstitions of the Highlands of Scotland, Considered as the Subject of Poetry HOME, thou return's!
الصفحة 57 - Madness ruled the hour) Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why, E'en at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rush'd; his eyes on fire, In lightnings own'd his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings.
الصفحة 53 - Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams. Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut That, from the mountain's side, Views wilds and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires ; And hears their simple bell; and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil.
الصفحة 78 - He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone, At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
الصفحة 70 - Or thither where beneath the show'ry west The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid : Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest. No slaves revere them, and no wars invade : Yet frequent now, at midnight's solemn hour...
الصفحة 52 - O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises, 'midst the twilight path Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum...
الصفحة 99 - The story of Cambuscan bold, Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to wife, That owned the virtuous ring and glass, And of the wondrous horse of brass, On which the Tartar king did ride...
الصفحة 58 - And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.
الصفحة 52 - Whose numbers stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit, As, musing...

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