The Poetical Works of Ebenezer ElliottW. Tait, 1840 - 179 pagina's |
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Veelvoorkomende woorden en zinsdelen
angels art thou beauty Behold beneath bless'd blood bosom bread bread-tax bread-tax'd breast bright Briton brow cheek child clouds cold Corn-Law curse dark dead dear death deeds deep despair dread dream E'en earth EDWARD LYTTON England Enoch eternal eyes father fear fire flowers foes gaze gentle fist gloom glow grave hand Hark hast hate hath hear heart heav'n hope hopeless King labour land light lips live lone look look'd Lord lov'd lyre Mary moorland mother mountains mourn ne'er night o'er ocean pain pale poison'd poor pride rill ROCH ABBEY rock rose Saint Helena Satraps scorn seem'd SHEFFIELD sigh silent sire slave sleep smile song soul spirit sublime sweet tears tell thee thine thou art thought throne Timna toil trembling turn'd tyrants vale vex'd voice wave weep wept wild wilt winds wing woodbine Workhouse worm wretch
Populaire passages
Pagina 62 - A stately pilgrim, watched by all the hills. Say, shall we wander where, through warriors' graves, The infant Yewden, mountain-cradled, trills Her doric notes ? Or, where the Locksley raves Of broil and battle, and the rocks and caves Dream yet of ancient...
Pagina 45 - It then excited universal joy and congratulation, as the prelude to the close of a merciless war : it now awakens sober reflections on the instability of empire, the peculiar destiny of the aboriginal race, and the inscrutable decrees of Heaven.
Pagina 114 - Let poor men's children, pleas'd to read his lays, Love, for his sake, the scenes where he hath been ; And when he ends his pilgrimage of days, Let him be buried where the grass is green ; Where daisies, blooming earliest, linger late To hear the bee his busy note prolong : — There let him slumber, and in peace await The dawning morn, far from the sensual throng, Who scorn the windflower's blush, the red-breast's lonely song.
Pagina 19 - He prattled less, in accents void of guile, Of that wild land, beyond the golden wave, Where I, not he, was doomed to be a slave ; Cold o'er his limbs the listless languor grew ; Paleness came o'er his eye of placid blue , Pale mourned the lily where the rose had died, And timid, trembling, came he to my side. He was my all on earth. Oh ! who can speak The anxious mother's too prophetic...
Pagina 62 - Rivilin, the clear and cold, That throws his blue length, like a snake, from high ? Or, where deep azure brightens into gold O'er Sheaf, that mourns in Eden? Or, where rolled On tawny sands, through regions passion-wild, And groves of love, in jealous beauty dark, Complains the Porter, Nature's thwarted child, Born in the waste, like headlong Wiming...
Pagina 107 - Child, what hast thou with sleep to do ? Awake, and dry thine eyes! Thy tiny hands must labour too ; Our bread is tax'd — arise ! Arise, and toil long hours twice seven, For pennies two or three ; Thy woes make angels weep in Heaven,— But England still is free. Up, weary man, of eighty-five, And toil in hopeless woe ! Our bread is tax'd, our rivals thrive, Our gods will have it so. Yet God is undethron'd on high, And undethroned will be : Father of all ! hear Thou our cry, And England shall be...
Pagina 19 - O'er her poor Emma ; and, in accents low, Said, "Ah ! why do I weep, and weep in vain For one so...
Pagina 128 - The glories of the lane ! For, oh, I love these banks of rock, This roof of sky and tree, These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock, And wakes the earliest bee ! As spirits from eternal day Look down on earth secure, Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey A world in miniature ! A world not...
Pagina 108 - OTHERS march in freedom's van ; Canst not thou what others can ? Thou a Briton ! thou a man ! What are worms, if human thou ? Wilt thou, deaf to hiss and groan, Breed white slaves for every zone ? Make yon robber feed his own, Then proclaim thyself a man. Still shall paltry tyrants tell Freemen when to buy and sell ? Spurn the coward thought to hell ! Tell the miscreants what they are. Dost thou cringe, that fiends may scowl ? Wert thou born without a soul ? Spaniels feed, are whipp'd, and howl;...
Pagina 135 - mid the general hush, A sweet air lifts the little bough Lone whispering through the bush. The primrose to the grave is gone, The hawthorn flower is dead ; The violet by the mossed gray stone Hath laid her weary head.