Poems, Volume 2Ticknor and Fields, 1860 |
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Page 5
... land of trances Have their solitary dwelling . All else seemed asleep in Bruges , In the quaint old Flemish city . And I thought how like these chimes Are the poet's airy rhymes , All his rhymes and roundelays , His conceits , and songs ...
... land of trances Have their solitary dwelling . All else seemed asleep in Bruges , In the quaint old Flemish city . And I thought how like these chimes Are the poet's airy rhymes , All his rhymes and roundelays , His conceits , and songs ...
Page 15
... land with terror smote ; And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat ; Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand , " I am Roland ! I am Roland ! there is victory in the land ! " Then the sound of drums ...
... land with terror smote ; And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat ; Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand , " I am Roland ! I am Roland ! there is victory in the land ! " Then the sound of drums ...
Page 27
... lands Rise the blue Franconian mountains , Nurem- berg , the ancient , stands . Quaint old town of toil and traffic , quaint old town of art and song , Memories haunt thy pointed gables , like the rooks that round them throng : • Here ...
... lands Rise the blue Franconian mountains , Nurem- berg , the ancient , stands . Quaint old town of toil and traffic , quaint old town of art and song , Memories haunt thy pointed gables , like the rooks that round them throng : • Here ...
Page 30
... Land . Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies ; Dead he is not , · but departed , — for the artist never dies . Fairer seems the ancient city , and the sunshine seems more fair , That he once has trod its pavement ...
... Land . Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies ; Dead he is not , · but departed , — for the artist never dies . Fairer seems the ancient city , and the sunshine seems more fair , That he once has trod its pavement ...
Page 35
... lands his sires had plundered , Written in the Doomsday Book . By his bed a monk was seated , Who in humble voice repeated Many a prayer and pater - noster , From the missal on his knee ; And , amid the tempest pealing , Sounds of bells ...
... lands his sires had plundered , Written in the Doomsday Book . By his bed a monk was seated , Who in humble voice repeated Many a prayer and pater - noster , From the missal on his knee ; And , amid the tempest pealing , Sounds of bells ...
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Common terms and phrases
Acadian Albrecht Dürer aloft art thou Balder Basil the blacksmith Béarn beautiful behold belfry BELFRY OF BRUGES bell beneath birds blossom bosom breath bride Bruges burning Charlemagne cloud cried dark dead descended door Evangeline Evangeline's evermore eyes face fair farmer Father fire Ever higher fireside Flanders forest Gabriel Gascon gaze Ghent gleam golden Grand-Pré Guy de Dampierre hand hear heard heart heaven higher Sing JULIUS MOSEN labor land laugh light loud maiden meadows Minnesingers moon morning never Nuremberg o'er ocean odor Ozark Mountains passed prairies prayer priest rain restless restless heart river rose round sail Saint sang seemed shadows ships shore silent slowly smile song sorrow soul sound spake stars stood sunshine sweet Tharaw thee thou thought tide toil unto village voice wandered wave weary whispered wild wind words youth
Popular passages
Page 353 - 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 78 - I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist: A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.
Page 357 - ALL are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time ; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme. Nothing useless is, or low ; Each thing in its place is best ; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest.
Page 355 - 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. In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives, whom we call dead.
Page 153 - Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its turret Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them, Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and her missal, Wearing her Norman cap, and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings, Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom, Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.
Page 79 - Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies.
Page 144 - This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?
Page 102 - I SHOT an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, 1 knew not where ; For who has sight so keen and strong.
Page 80 - Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.
Page 24 - ... rise the burnished arms; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms. Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone before us, In long reverberations reach our own.