The British Poets, Volumen 2

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Little, Brown & Company, 1865
 

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Página 244 - JACK and Jill went up the hill, To fetch a pail of water; Jack fell down and broke his crown And Jill came tumbling after.
Página 101 - Oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near and the daylight's past.
Página 101 - Utawas tide ! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon. Saint of this green isle ! hear our prayers, Oh ! grant us cool heavens and favouring airs. Blow, breezes, blow ! the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past ! TO THE LADY CHARLOTTE RAWDON.
Página 37 - They tell of a young man, who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses.
Página 100 - FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.
Página 38 - They made her a grave, too cold and damp For a soul so warm and true ; And she's gone to the lake of the Dismal Swamp, Where, all night long, by a firefly lamp, She paddles her white canoe. " And her firefly lamp I soon shall see, And her paddle I soon shall hear ; Long and loving our life shall be, And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree, When the footstep of Death is near...
Página 99 - I KNEW, by the smoke that so gracefully curled Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, And I said, " If there's peace to be found in the world, A heart that was humble might hope for it here...
Página 83 - This embryo capital, where Fancy sees Squares in morasses, obelisks in trees ; Which second-sighted seers, ev'n now, adorn With shrines unbuilt and heroes yet unborn, Though nought but woods and Jefferson they see, Where streets should run and sages ought to be.
Página 139 - Like a young eagle, who has lent his plume To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom, See their own feathers pluck'd, to wing the dart, Which rank corruption destines for their heart...
Página 234 - Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, And coolly spout and spout and spout away, In one weak, washy, everlasting flood ! EPIGRAM.

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