The Wanderer of Switzerland, and Other Poems

Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme, 1806 - 175 páginas
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Página 152 - The purple heath and golden broom, On moory mountains catch the gale, O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, The violet in the vale; But this bold...
Página 79 - There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found ; And while the mouldering ashes sleep Low in the ground, " The Soul, of origin divine, GOD'S glorious image, freed from clay, In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine A star of day. " The SUN is but a spark of fire, A transient meteor in the sky ; The SOUL, immortal as its Sire, SHALL NEVER DIE.
Página 75 - By all the terrors of the tomb, Beyond the power of tongue to tell ! By the dread secrets of my womb ! By Death and Hell ! ' I charge thee live ! — repent and pray ; In dust thine infamy deplore ; There yet is mercy ; — go thy way, And sin no more.
Página 79 - To fall no more. Now, traveller in the vale of tears To realms of everlasting light, Through Time's dark wilderness of years, Pursue thy flight. There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found: And while the mouldering ashes...
Página 164 - And with livid contagion polluting the breeze, Its mildewing influence sheds : The birds on the wing, and the flowers in their beds, Are slain by its venomous breath, That darkens the noonday with death ; And pale ghosts of travellers wander around, While their mouldering skeletons whiten the ground.
Página 98 - Ambition, pride, revenge depart, And folly flies her chastening rod ; She makes the humble contrite heart A temple of the living GOD. Beyond the narrow vale of time, Where bright celestial ages roll, To scenes eternal, scenes sublime, She points the way, and leads the soul. At her approach the Grave appears The Gate of Paradise restored ; Her voice the watching Cherub hears, And drops his double-flaming sword.
Página 150 - It pass'd, — my HANNAH was the bride. — There is a grief that cannot feel ; It leaves a wound that will not heal ; — My heart grew cold, — it felt not then : When shall it cease to feel again ? 1801.
Página 86 - Lyre ! O Lyre ! my chosen treasure, Solace of my bleeding heart ; Lyre ! O Lyre ! my only pleasure, We will never, never part : Glory, Commerce, now in vain Tempt me to the field, the main ; The Muse's sons are blest, though born To cold neglect, and penury, and scorn.
Página 166 - But woe to the winds that propitiously breathe, And waft them in safety to port, Where the vultures and vampires of Mammon resort ; Where Europe exultingly drains The life-blood from Africa's veins ; Where man rules o'er man with a merciless rod, And spurns at his footstool the image of God ! The hour is approaching, — a terrible hour ! And Vengeance is bending her bow...

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