Midnight musings, poems1832 |
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عبارات ومصطلحات مألوفة
AGNES amid anguish arrayed ARTHUR balmy banner battle beam beauty beneath bitter bloom breast breathe bright bring brow calm cheek cheer CLIFFORD's CLIFFORD's tower clouds dark death decay deep delight DEMERARA dew-drops DIRGE E'en early earth fade faint fairy falchions fame farewell feelings flowers gallant band gaze gentle gladness gloom glory grief hath heard Heaven holy hopes laurel wreath life's light lonely look of love lour lyre maiden rest mem'ry merry England mirth moonlight morning mourn neath night o'er ocean pain pale path peace perchance perfume placid plain pleasures pow'r pride pure Queen reigns reigns o'er rill scene seems shed shine shone silent sleep smile sorrow soul spirit splendour star strife tears thee thine thou thoughts thro Tis sweet tomb transient vale vanished VESPER HOUR visage voice wake warrior weary ween wings withered young heart youth
مقاطع مشهورة
الصفحة 59 - OFT, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me ; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken ; The eyes that shone, Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken ! Thus, in the stilly night...
الصفحة 67 - Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; And slight withal may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever : it may be a sound — A tone of music, — summer's eve — or spring, A flower — the wind — the Ocean — which shall wound, Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound ; XXIV.
الصفحة 48 - Twere now to be most happy, for I fear My soul hath her content so absolute That not another comfort like to this Succeeds in unknown fate.
الصفحة 56 - O, that the slave had forty thousand lives ! One is too poor, too weak for my revenge. Now do I see 'tis true. Look here, lago ; All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven : 'Tis gone. Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell ! Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne To tyrannous hate ! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught, For 'tis of aspics
الصفحة 89 - Where the wicked cease from troubling And the weary are at rest !