The British Poets, Volume 2

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Little, Brown & Company, 1865

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Page 135 - To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite ; To forgive wrongs darker than death or night; To defy Power, which seems omnipotent; To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates From its own wreck the thing it contemplates
Page 337 - 0 cease ! must hate and death return ? Cease ! must men kill and die? Cease ! drain not to its dregs the urn Of bitter prophecy. The world is weary of the past, O might it die or rest at last I
Page 81 - spibit. On the brink of the night and the morning My coursers are wont to respire ; But the Earth has just whispered a warning That their flight must be swifter than fire: They shall drink the hot speed of desire! Thou breathest on their nostrils, but my breath Would give them swifter speed.
Page 109 - We bear the bier Of the father of many a cancelled year! Spectres we Of the dead Hours be; "We bear Time to his tomb in eternity. Wet the dusty pall with tears, not dew ! Be the faded flowers Of Death's bare bowers Spread on the corpse of the King of Hours I
Page 120 - When the sun rushes under it; they roll And move and grow as with an inward wind. Within it sits a winged infant, white Its countenance, like the whiteness of bright snow, Its plumes are as feathers of sunny frost, Its limbs gleam white, through the wind-flowing folds Of its white robe, woof of
Page 108 - Passionless—no, yet free from guilt or pain, Which were, for his will made or suffered them; Nor yet exempt, though ruling them like slaves, From chance, and death, and mutability, The clogs of that which else might oversoar The loftiest star of unascended heaven, Pinnacled dim in the intense inane. ACT IV. Scene—A part of the Forest near the Cave of
Page 34 - He whom some dreadful voice invokes is here, Prometheus, the chained Titan. Horrible forms, What and who are ye ? Never yet there came Phantasms so foul through monster-teeming Hell From the all-miscreative brain of Jove ; Whilst I behold such execrable shapes, Methinks I grow like what I contemplate, And laugh and stare in loathsome sympathy. FIRST
Page 269 - My God! Can it be possible I have To die so suddenly ? so young to go Oh, Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy ground 1 To be nailed down into a narrow place: To see no more sweet sunshine ; hear no more Blithe voice of living thing ; muse not again
Page 131 - 0 gentle Moon, the voice of thy delight Falls on me like thy clear and tender light Soothing the seaman, borne the summer night Through isles for ever calm ; 0 gentle Moon, thy crystal accents pierce The caverns of my pride's deep universe, Charming the tiger joy, whose tramplings fierce Made wounds which need thy balm. PANTHEA.

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