Elliott's Poems: Kerhonah, The vernal walk, Win hill, and other poems

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Pàgina 126 - Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows, Wild bramble of the brake ! So, put thou forth thy small white rose ; I love it for his sake. Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow O'er all the fragrant bowers, Thou need'st not be ashamed to show Thy satin-threaded flowers...
Pàgina 154 - Bends o'er th' unfailing well ; Beneath the furrow lingers yet The scarlet pimpernel. Peeps not a snowdrop in the bower, Where never froze the spring ? A daisy ? Ah ! bring childhood's flower ! The half-blown daisy bring ! Yes, lay the daisy's little head Beside the little cheek ; O haste ! the last of five is dead ! The childless cannot speak ! TO FANNY.
Pàgina 74 - Tis mute as death ! — but in my soul It roars, and ever will. What forests tall of tiniest moss Clothe every little stone ! What pigmy oaks their foliage toss O'er pigmy valleys lone ! With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge, Ambitious of the sky, They feather o'er the steepest edge Of mountains mushroom high.
Pàgina 52 - And where the rose-leaf, ever bold, Hears bees chant hymns to God, The breeze-bowed palm, mossed o'er with gold, Smiles o'er the well in summer cold, And daisied sod. But thou, pale blossom, thou art come. And flowers in winter blow, To tell me that the worm makes room For me, her brother, in the tomb, And thinks me slow. For as the rainbow of the dawn Foretells an eve of tears, A sunbeam on the saddened lawn I smile, and weep to be withdrawn In early years.
Pàgina 127 - O'er all the fragrant bowers, Thou needst not be ashamed to show Thy satin-threaded flowers ; For dull the eye, the heart is dull, That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful, Thy tender blossoms are, How delicate thy gauzy frill, How rich thy branchy stem, How soft thy voice- when woods are still, And thou sing'st hymns to them ; While silent showers are falling slow, And, 'mid the general hush, A sweet air lifts the little bough, Lone whispering through the bush ! The primrose to the grave...
Pàgina 104 - The lone wild flowers from blowing. " High, high above the tree-tops The lark is soaring free ; Where streams the light through broken clouds, His speckled breast I see : Beneath the might of wicked men The poor man's worth is dying ; But thank'd be God, in spite of them, The lark still warbles flying. " The preacher prays, Lord bless us...
Pàgina 73 - Light ! minutely fair, Divinely plain and clear, Like splinters of a crystal hair, Thy bright small hand is here. Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide, Is Huron, girt with wood ; This driplet feeds Missouri's tide— And that Niagara's flood. What tidings from the Andes brings Yon line of liquid light...
Pàgina 46 - PRESTON MILLS The day was fair, the cannon roar'd, Cold blew the bracing north, And Preston's Mills, by thousands, pour'd Their little captives forth. All in their best they paced the street, All glad that they were free; And sung a song with voices sweet — They sung of Liberty! But from their lips the rose had fled, Like "death-in-life" they smiled; And still, as each pass'd by, I said, Alas!
Pàgina 175 - But alone let them groan, The lowest of the low ; And basely beg the bread they curse Where millions curse them now ! " No ; wake not thou the giant Who drinks hot blood for wine ; And shouts unto the east and west In thunder-tones like thine ; Till the slow to move rush all at once, An avalanche of men, While he raves over waves That need no whirlwind then ; Though slow to move, moved all at once, A sea, a sea of men !
Pàgina 155 - A POET'S EPITAPH. Stop, Mortal ! Here thy brother lies, The Poet of- the Poor. His books were rivers, woods, and skies, The meadow, and the moor ; His teachers were the torn hearts' wail, The tyrant and the slave, The street, the factory, the jail, The palace — and the grave ! The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm, He feared to scorn or hate ; And honoured in a peasant's form The equal of the great.

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