The Bowdoin PoetsJ. Griffin, 1840 - 188 pages |
From inside the book
Results 1-5 of 11
Page x
... HENRY W. FULLER , JR . 1828 BENJAMIN B. THATCHER 1826 BENJ . A. G. FULLER 1839 CHARLES W. UPHAM 1833 HENRY J. GARDNER 1838 CHARLES H. UPTON 1834 CLAUDE L. HEMANS 1838 RICHARD H. VOSE 1822 ELIJAH KELLOGG , JR . 1840 WILLIAM B. WALTER 1818 ...
... HENRY W. FULLER , JR . 1828 BENJAMIN B. THATCHER 1826 BENJ . A. G. FULLER 1839 CHARLES W. UPHAM 1833 HENRY J. GARDNER 1838 CHARLES H. UPTON 1834 CLAUDE L. HEMANS 1838 RICHARD H. VOSE 1822 ELIJAH KELLOGG , JR . 1840 WILLIAM B. WALTER 1818 ...
Page 1
Edward Payson Weston. THE SPIRIT OF POETRY . BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW . THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods , That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows ; Where , underneath the white - thorn , in the glade , The wild flowers ...
Edward Payson Weston. THE SPIRIT OF POETRY . BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW . THERE is a quiet spirit in these woods , That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows ; Where , underneath the white - thorn , in the glade , The wild flowers ...
Page 29
... age , And purity of youth . And mighty - holy is the hand , That guards their native sod ; — ' Tis for the freedom of their land , They raise their souls to God . 29 THE BELEAGUERED CITY . BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW . I 3 *
... age , And purity of youth . And mighty - holy is the hand , That guards their native sod ; — ' Tis for the freedom of their land , They raise their souls to God . 29 THE BELEAGUERED CITY . BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW . I 3 *
Page 30
Edward Payson Weston. THE BELEAGUERED CITY . BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW . I HAVE read in some old marvellous tale , Some legend strange and vague , That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague . Beside the Moldau's ...
Edward Payson Weston. THE BELEAGUERED CITY . BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW . I HAVE read in some old marvellous tale , Some legend strange and vague , That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague . Beside the Moldau's ...
Contents
1 | |
7 | |
13 | |
19 | |
25 | |
33 | |
41 | |
49 | |
107 | |
113 | |
121 | |
127 | |
134 | |
141 | |
145 | |
148 | |
57 | |
64 | |
73 | |
76 | |
79 | |
91 | |
95 | |
101 | |
154 | |
164 | |
170 | |
178 | |
181 | |
185 | |
188 | |
Other editions - View all
Common terms and phrases
Autumn beam beauty beneath bloom bosom Bowdoin bowers breast breath bright brow Brunswick CHARLES H clouds cold COVENANTERS dark dead death deep dream earth fair faith Farewell fears fled flowers flowers of Eden foaming path FREDERIC MELLEN friends gaze gentle GEORGE F gleam gloom glory grave green hath haunts heart heaven HENRY W hope hour infant ISAAC M'LELLAN joyous leaves life's light live alway lonely memory morning mother mournful ne'er neath night numbered o'er o'er thy ocean old time loved passed prayer Prentiss Mellen proud repose rest ROBERT WYMAN rolling round rushing Samuel Thatcher SEBA SMITH shore sigh silent skies sleep slumbers smile soft song sorrow soul spirit star stern storm stream strife sweet swell tears tempest's thee thine thought throng tread trembling Twas virgin train voice wave weep wild wing wintry wind withering woods youth
Popular passages
Page 31 - White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral camp was seen, And with a sorrowful, deep sound, The river flowed between. No other voice nor sound was there, No drum, nor sentry's pace ; The mist-like banners clasped the air, As clouds with clouds embrace. But, when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarmed air. Down the broad valley, fast and far, The troubled army fled ; Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead.
Page 2 - Hence gifted bards Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. For them there was an eloquent voice in all The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds...
Page 139 - When the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered, To a holy, calm delight...
Page 30 - I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague. Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, TTiere stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead.
Page 140 - And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies.
Page 179 - Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
Page 141 - Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air. O, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died ! FLOWERS.
Page 139 - Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door; The beloved, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strife, By the roadside fell and perished, Weary with the march of life! They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with...
Page 26 - The babe was sleeping on her breast. And colder still the winds did blow, And darker hours of night came on, And deeper grew the drifting snow : Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone. " O God ! " she cried in accents wild, " If I must perish, save my child ! " She stripped her mantle from her breast, And bared her bosom to the storm.
Page 24 - Gray watcher of the waters ! Thou art king Of the blue lake ; and all the winged kind Do fear the echo of thine angry cry. How bright thy savage eye ! Thou lookest down, And seest the shining fishes as they glide ; And poising thy gray wing, thy glossy beak Swift as an arrow strikes its roving prey.