The Poets and Poetry of the West: With Biographical and Critical Notices

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Follett, Foster, 1860 - American literature - 688 pages
 

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Page 361 - Not enjoyment and not sorrow. Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today.
Page 361 - Trust no future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead past bury its dead! Act, — act in the living present! Heart within, and GOD o'erhead!
Page 350 - That seemeth best of all. Not for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe; Not for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies That lean from the fragrant...
Page 87 - Faith is the rainbow's form Hung on the brow of heaven, The glory of the passing storm, The pledge of mercy given ; It is the bright, triumphal arch, Through which the saints to glory march.
Page 122 - not only witty in himself, but the cause that wit is in other men.
Page 306 - may go and play," While I manage the world by myself. But harness me down with your iron bands, Be sure of your curb and rein, For I scorn the strength of your puny hands As the tempest scorns a chain.
Page 681 - The silent orchard aisles are sweet With smell of ripening fruit. Through the sere grass, in shy retreat, Flutter, at coming feet, The robins strange and mute. There is no wind to stir the leaves, The harsh leaves overhead ; Only the querulous cricket grieves, And shrilling locust weaves A song of Summer dead.
Page 566 - Let me front them ere I die. Ah ! no more amid the battle Shall my heart exulting swell — Isis and Osiris guard thee ! Cleopatra, Rome, farewell ! JOCULAR ORATORY.
Page 309 - Then, up with our flag !—let it stream on the air; Though our fathers are cold in their graves, They had hands that could strike, they had souls that could dare And their sons were not born to be slaves. Up, up with that banner! where'er it may call, Our millions shall rally around, And a nation of freemen that moment shall fall When its stars shall be trailed on the ground.
Page 139 - Where the slant sunbeams shoot : But of each tall, old tree, the lengthening line, Slow-creeping eastward, marks the day's decline. Faster, along the plain, Moves now the shade, and on the meadow's edge : The kine are forth again, The bird flits in the hedge. Now in the molten west sinks the hot sun. Welcome, mild eve ! — the sultry day is done. Pleasantly...

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