The Bowdoin Poets

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Edward Payson Weston
J. Griffin, 1849 - 180 pages
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Page 111 - It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise ! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies ; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close ; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.
Page 86 - THE shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior ! His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior!
Page 123 - Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless main; Till in sheltered coves, and reaches Of sandy beaches, All have found repose again.
Page 15 - 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. 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...
Page 122 - SEAWEED. WHEN descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges The toiling surges, Laden with seaweed from the rocks : From Bermuda's reefs ; from edges Of sunken ledges, In some far-off, bright Azore ; From Bahama, and the dashing, Silver-flashing Surges of San Salvador...
Page 27 - He saw once more his dark-eyed queen Among her children stand ; They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, They held him by the hand ! A tear burst from the sleeper's lids, And fell into the sand.
Page 13 - 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 27 - O'er plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roofs of CafFre huts, And the ocean rose to view. At night he heard the lion roar, And the hyaena scream, And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds Beside some hidden stream ; And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, Through the triumph of his dream. The forests, with their myriad tongues, Shouted of liberty ; And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, With a voice so wild and free, That he started in his sleep and smiled At their tempestuous...
Page 171 - 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 13 - Shadows from the fitful fire-light Dance upon the parlor wall ; Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door ; The beloved ones, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more ; He, the young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strife, By the road-side fell and perished, Weary with the march of life...

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