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Página 60 - And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me Were a delight : and if the freshening sea Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here.
Página 60 - Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou; Unchangeable save to thy wild waves
Página 34 - Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere ; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.
Página 60 - Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, Calm or convulsed, — in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime. The image of eternity, the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
Página 34 - Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.
Página 34 - Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.
Página 64 - My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone!
Página 68 - Slaves cannot breathe in England ; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free, They touch our country, and their shackles fall.
Página 6 - Beware !" her vest of gold Broidered with flowers and clasped from head to foot, An emerald stone in every golden clasp, And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls. But then her face ! So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, The overflowings of an innocent heart : It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, Like some wild melody.