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Page 67 - CALL it not vain ¡—they do not err, Who say, that when the Poet dies, Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, And celebrates his obsequies : Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, For the departed Bard make moan ; That mountains weep in crystal rill ; That flowers in tears of balm distil ; Through his loved groves that breezes sigh, And oaks, in deeper groan, reply; And rivers teach their rushing wave To murmur dirges round his grave.
Page 68 - You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass, and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.
Page 125 - Great, good, and just ! could I but rate My griefs, and thy too rigid fate ; I'd weep the world to such a strain, As it should deluge once again ; " But since thy loud-tongued blood demands supplies, More from Briareus' hands than Argus' eyes ; I'll sing thy obsequies with trumpet sounds, And write thy epitaph with blood and wounds.
Page 69 - Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side, The seven elms, the poplars four, That stand beside my father's door, And chiefly from the brook that loves To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, • Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, Drawing into his narrow earthen urn, In every elbow and turn, The filtered tribute of the rough woodland.
Page 516 - ... indeed exercises great influence on his mode of thinking. His rhetoric, though often good of its kind, darkens and perplexes the logic which it should illustrate. Half his acuteness and diligence, with a barren imagination and a scanty vocabulary, would have saved him from almost all his mistakes. He has one gift most dangerous to a speculator, a vast command of a kind of language, grave and majestic, but of vague and uncertain import; of a kind of language which affects us much in the same way...
Page 67 - Upon her eyry nods the erne, The deer has sought the brake ; The small birds will not sing aloud, The springing trout lies still, So darkly glooms yon thunder cloud, That swathes, as with a purple shroud, Benledi's distant hill.
Page 65 - For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts...
Page 66 - The blackbird amid leafy trees, The lark above the hill, Let loose their carols when they please, Are quiet when they will. With Nature never do they wage A foolish strife ; they see A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free. But we are pressed by heavy laws; And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.