The Native Poets of Maine, Issue 288D. Bugbee & Company, 1854 - 312 pages |
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S. Herbert Lancey. Hearts have beat , warmly here as where The Summer - lingers late and long , And here have brows found strength to bear The laurel wreath of Song . The strains that fill with Hope the heart , The lays that cheer us in ...
S. Herbert Lancey. Hearts have beat , warmly here as where The Summer - lingers late and long , And here have brows found strength to bear The laurel wreath of Song . The strains that fill with Hope the heart , The lays that cheer us in ...
Page 4
... hearts of his countless friends , when the long grass shall wave and fall over the poet's sacred place of rest , and they will ... heart loves and admires , will linger long ere time can oblit- erate it . He is yet a Professor in Harvard ...
... hearts of his countless friends , when the long grass shall wave and fall over the poet's sacred place of rest , and they will ... heart loves and admires , will linger long ere time can oblit- erate it . He is yet a Professor in Harvard ...
Page 8
... heart , Feeding its flame . The element of fire Is pure . But burns as brightly in a Gipsy camp As in a palace hall . Art thou convinced ? It cannot change nor hide its nature , PRECIOSA . Yes , that I love thee , as the good love ...
... heart , Feeding its flame . The element of fire Is pure . But burns as brightly in a Gipsy camp As in a palace hall . Art thou convinced ? It cannot change nor hide its nature , PRECIOSA . Yes , that I love thee , as the good love ...
Page 11
... heart like flowers within a book , Shall be torn out , and scattered to the winds ! I will forget her ! But perhaps ... heart ! HYPOLITO . Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more ! To conquer love , one need but will to conquer ...
... heart like flowers within a book , Shall be torn out , and scattered to the winds ! I will forget her ! But perhaps ... heart ! HYPOLITO . Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more ! To conquer love , one need but will to conquer ...
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S. Herbert Lancey. A PSALM OF LIFE . WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST . TELL me not , in mournful ... hearts , though stout and brave , Still , like muffled drums are beating Funeral marches to the grave . In the ...
S. Herbert Lancey. A PSALM OF LIFE . WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST . TELL me not , in mournful ... hearts , though stout and brave , Still , like muffled drums are beating Funeral marches to the grave . In the ...
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Common terms and phrases
amid Bangor Battle of Niagara beautiful beneath birds bless bloom born Boston Bowdoin College breast breath bright brow cheek clouds cold dark dead death deep dream earth echo EDWARD PAYSON WESTON ELIJAH PARISH LOVEJOY ELIZABETH OAKES PRINCE Farewell feel flowers gaze gentle glory gone grave green hast hath hear heart heaven HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW hope hour hymn HYPOLITO Ianthe Idlewild immortal life's light lingering lips literary lone Longfellow look Mellen MELVILLE WESTON FULLER morning mournful native never New-York night o'er pass'd poems poet poetry Portland Portland Tribune prayer Prentiss Mellen published round Seba Smith shadows shine shore sigh sing skies sleep smile song sorrow soul sound spirit star storm stream summer sweet talent tears tell thine Thou art thought of thee tree Twas voice wave weary weep wild wind wing youth
Popular passages
Page 22 - THERE is no flock, however watched and tended But one dead lamb is there ! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair ! The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead ; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted...
Page 22 - There is no Death ! What seems so is transition. This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian Whose portal we call Death. She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ Himself doth rule.
Page 14 - Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! — For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
Page 16 - His hair is crisp and black and long, His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow : You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell When the evening sun is low.
Page 28 - THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; It rains, and the wind is never weary ; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.
Page 2 - Tis of the wave and not the rock; 'Tis but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale ! In spite of rock and tempest's roar, In spite of false lights on the shore. Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee.
Page 18 - 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, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead.
Page 26 - ... Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air Excelsior ! A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half-buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device Excelsior ! There in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior ! POEMS ON SLAVERY.
Page 25 - 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 20 - ALL houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, With feet that make no sound upon the floors. We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, Along the passages they come and go, Impalpable impressions on the air, A sense of something moving to and fro. There are more guests at table than the hosts Invited ; the illuminated hall Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, As silent as the pictures on the wall.