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 28
... thee on my knee , my son ! And kissed thee laughing , kissed thee weeping ; But ah ! thy little day is done , Thou ' rt with thy angel sister sleeping . The staff , on which my years should lean , Is broken , ere those years come o'er ...
... thee on my knee , my son ! And kissed thee laughing , kissed thee weeping ; But ah ! thy little day is done , Thou ' rt with thy angel sister sleeping . The staff , on which my years should lean , Is broken , ere those years come o'er ...
Page 29
... thee ascends the spirit's prayer , Thou God of the immortal dead . All space is holy ; for all space Is filled by thee ; but human thought Burns clearer in some chosen place , Where thy own words of love are taught . Here be they taught ...
... thee ascends the spirit's prayer , Thou God of the immortal dead . All space is holy ; for all space Is filled by thee ; but human thought Burns clearer in some chosen place , Where thy own words of love are taught . Here be they taught ...
Page 33
... thee , of even the starry train ; For , all the host around thee burning , Like faithless man , keep turning , turning . I may not follow where they go : Star of the North , I look to thee While on I press ; for well I know Thy light ...
... thee , of even the starry train ; For , all the host around thee burning , Like faithless man , keep turning , turning . I may not follow where they go : Star of the North , I look to thee While on I press ; for well I know Thy light ...
Page 37
... thee there is no prouder grave , Even in her own proud clime . — She wore no funeral - weeds for thee , Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume Like torn branch from death's leafless tree In sorrow's pomp and pageantry , The ...
... thee there is no prouder grave , Even in her own proud clime . — She wore no funeral - weeds for thee , Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume Like torn branch from death's leafless tree In sorrow's pomp and pageantry , The ...
Page 46
... thee ' t is given To guard the banner of the free , To hover in the sulphur smoke , To ward away the battle stroke , And bid its blendings shine afar , Like rainbows on the cloud of war , The harbingers of victory ! Flag of the brave ...
... thee ' t is given To guard the banner of the free , To hover in the sulphur smoke , To ward away the battle stroke , And bid its blendings shine afar , Like rainbows on the cloud of war , The harbingers of victory ! Flag of the brave ...
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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...