The Life and Letters of Fitz-Greene Halleck

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D. Appleton, 1869 - 607 halaman

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Halaman 282 - While I — good Heaven! — have thatched myself over with the dead fleeces of sheep, the bark of vegetables, the entrails of worms, the hides of oxen or seals, the felt of furred beasts; and walk abroad a moving Rag-screen, overheaped with shreds and tatters raked from the Charnel-house of Nature, where they would have rotted, to rot on me more slowly!
Halaman 183 - Flag of the free heart's hope and home, By angel hands to valor given ! Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet ! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us ? JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.
Halaman 233 - Yet read the names that know not death ; Few nobler ones than Burns are there; And few have won a greener wreath Than that which binds his hair. His is that language of the heart In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the...
Halaman 228 - Th at day its roof was triumph's arch ; Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome, The light step of the soldier's march, The music of the trump and drum ; And babe, and sire...
Halaman 217 - I love to pour out all myself, as plain As downright Shippen, or as old Montaigne: In them, as certain to be loved as seen, The soul stood forth, nor kept a thought within; In me what spots (for spots I have) appear, Will prove at least the medium must be clear. In this impartial glass, my muse intends Fair to expose myself, my foes, my friends...
Halaman 431 - The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; The monarch may forget the crown ' That on his head an hour has been ; The mother may forget the child That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And a' that thou hast done for me ! " LINES, SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD, OF WHITEFORD, BART.
Halaman 317 - A Poet's daughter — dearer word Lip hath not spoke nor listener heard, Fit theme for song of bee and bird From morn till even, And wind-harp by the breathing stirred Of star-lit heaven. My spirit's wings are weak, the fire Poetic comes but to expire, Her name needs not my humble lyre To bid it live ; She hath already from her sire All bard can give.

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