The West Indies, and other poems, Volum 2

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Pàgina 32 - Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole; For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace, The heritage of nature's noblest race, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest...
Pàgina 31 - The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air ; In every clime the magnet of his soul, Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole...
Pàgina 79 - Molian lyre The winds of dark November stray, Touch the quick nerve of every wire, And on its magic pulses play ;— Till all the air around, Mysterious murmurs fill, A strange bewildering dream of sound, Most heavenly sweet, — yet mournful still.
Pàgina 33 - An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. " Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ?" Art thou a man ? — a patriot ? — look around ; Oh, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy home...
Pàgina 7 - Soft fell the shades, till Cynthia's slender bow Crested the farthest wave, then sunk below: "Tell me, resplendent guardian of the night, Circling the sphere in thy perennial flight, What secret path of heaven thy smiles adorn, What nameless sea reflects thy gleaming horn ?
Pàgina 34 - Man, through all ages of revolving time, Unchanging man, in every varying clime, Deems his own land of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ; His home the spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.
Pàgina 102 - The wind that wanders o'er this tomb Was once his vital breath. The roving wind shall pass away, The warming sun forsake the sky ; Thy Brother, in that dreadful day, Shall live, — and never die. THE OLD MAN'S SONG. SHALL Man of frail fruition boast ? Shall life be counted dear, Oft but a moment, and, at most, A momentary year ? There...
Pàgina 104 - JELL me, thou dust beneath my feet, Thou dust that once hadst breath ! Tell me how many mortals meet In this small hill of death ? The Mole, that scoops with curious toil Her subterranean bed, Thinks not she ploughs a human soil, And mines among the dead.
Pàgina 42 - His frame, — a fungus form, of dunghill birth, That taints the air, and rots above the earth ; His soul ; — has he a soul, whose sensual breast Of selfish passions is a serpent's nest ? Who follows headlong, ignorant, and blind, The vague...
Pàgina 125 - HE sought his sire from shore to shore, He sought him day by day ; The prow he track'd was seen no more, Breasting the ocean-spray ; Yet, as the winds his voyage sped, He sail'd above his father's head, Unconscious where it lay, Deep, deep beneath the rolling main ; - — He sought his sire ; he sought in vain. Son of the brave ! no longer weep ; Still with affection true, Along...

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