The Poetical Works of Rogers, Campbell, J. Montgomery, Lamb, and Kirke White: Complete in One Volume

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Carey & Lea, 1830 - 496 Seiten
 

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Seite 138 - There runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me for revenge. I have sought it; I have killed many; I have fully glutted my vengeance. For my country, I rejoice at the beams of peace; but do not harbor a thought that mine is the joy of fear.
Seite 150 - Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!
Seite 261 - Kings shall fall down before Him, And gold and incense bring ; 'All nations shall adore Him, His praise all people sing ; For He shall have dominion O'er river, -sea, and shore, Far as the eagle's pinion Or dove's light wing can soar.
Seite 149 - The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave ! — For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave...
Seite 148 - I have marshalled my clan : Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock...
Seite 149 - Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! And we conquer but to save ; So peace instead of death let us bring; But yield, proud foe, thy fleet With the crews, at England's feet ; And make submission meet To our king.
Seite 150 - Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.
Seite 153 - O'er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirrored in the ocean vast A thousand fathoms down ! As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam : For, faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span, Nor lets the type grow pale with age That first spoke peace to man.
Seite 150 - On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow ; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.
Seite 104 - WISH MINE be a cot beside the hill ; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.

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