An American Anthology, 1787-1900: Selections Illustrating the Editor's Critical Review of American Poetry in the Nineteenth CenturyEdmund Clarence Stedman Added t.p., engraved. |
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Page 68
... neath The waves and disappear . I hear the jar Of beaten drums , and thunders that break forth From cannon , where the advancing billow sends Up to the sight long files of armëd men , That hurry to the charge through flame and smoke ...
... neath The waves and disappear . I hear the jar Of beaten drums , and thunders that break forth From cannon , where the advancing billow sends Up to the sight long files of armëd men , That hurry to the charge through flame and smoke ...
Page 72
... neath the dome , To man or angel's eye might not be known . No snowy fleece in these sad realms was found , Nor silken ball , by maiden loved so well ; But ranged in lightest garniture around , In seemly folds a shining tapestry fell ...
... neath the dome , To man or angel's eye might not be known . No snowy fleece in these sad realms was found , Nor silken ball , by maiden loved so well ; But ranged in lightest garniture around , In seemly folds a shining tapestry fell ...
Page 73
... neath up- reared Their different gleaming lengths ; and so complete Their wondrous rangement , that a tune- ful Gnome Drew from them sounds more varied , clear , and sweet , Than ever yet had rung in any earthly dome . Loud , shrilly ...
... neath up- reared Their different gleaming lengths ; and so complete Their wondrous rangement , that a tune- ful Gnome Drew from them sounds more varied , clear , and sweet , Than ever yet had rung in any earthly dome . Loud , shrilly ...
Page 78
... neath our pines thou feignest deathlike sleep ? BARTOL POET of the Pulpit , whose full - chorded lyre Startles the churches from their slumbers late , Discoursing music , mixed with lofty ire At wrangling factions in the restless state ...
... neath our pines thou feignest deathlike sleep ? BARTOL POET of the Pulpit , whose full - chorded lyre Startles the churches from their slumbers late , Discoursing music , mixed with lofty ire At wrangling factions in the restless state ...
Page 85
... neath a fond father's smile , And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile ! Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam , But give me , oh , give me , the pleasures of home ! Home ! Home ! sweet , sweet Home ! There's no place like ...
... neath a fond father's smile , And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile ! Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam , But give me , oh , give me , the pleasures of home ! Home ! Home ! sweet , sweet Home ! There's no place like ...
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Common terms and phrases
Annabel Lee art thou Atlantic Monthly beauty bells Ben Bolt beneath bird bloom blow brave breast breath bright brow cardinal bird child cloud dark dead dear death deep doth dream earth eyes face fair fear feet flame flowers glory glow golden gone grass grave gray green hand hast hath hear heard heart heaven hills Israfel Joseph Rodman Drake Kingston Bridge kiss Kree land light lips live lonely look lyre mighty moon morning neath never nevermore night o'er pass peace Poems poet rose round sail shadows shine shore sigh silent sing skies sleep smile snow soft song Sonnets sorrow soul sound spirit stars strong summer sweet tears tell tempest thee thine things thou art thought tree verse voice W. D. Howells wave weary wild wind wings wood
Popular passages
Page 141 - thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore: Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!
Page 110 - The village smithy stands ; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands ; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.
Page 115 - T is but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale ! In spite of rock and tempest's roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee...
Page 146 - Hear the sledges with the bells Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Page 51 - The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, - the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods - rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man.
Page 146 - Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows...
Page 91 - If the red slayer think he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways I keep, and pass, and turn again. Far or forgot to me is near; Shadow and sunlight are the same; The vanished gods to me appear; And one to me are shame and fame.
Page 227 - ... the prize we sought is won. The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
Page 115 - UNION, strong and great! Humanity with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate! We know what Master laid thy keel, What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge and what a heat Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
Page 140 - To Helen Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, And the grandeur that was Rome. Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land! Israfel And the angel...