The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott: The Corn-law Rhymer

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W. Tait, 1840 - 179 pàgines
 

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Pàgina 66 - 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...
Pàgina 49 - 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.
Pàgina 118 - 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.
Pàgina 22 - 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...
Pàgina 66 - 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...
Pàgina 111 - 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...
Pàgina 22 - O'er her poor Emma ; and, in accents low, Said, "Ah ! why do I weep, and weep in vain For one so...
Pàgina 132 - 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...
Pàgina 112 - 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;...
Pàgina 139 - 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.

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