The Poetical Works of Eliza Cook

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F. Warne and Company, 1870 - English poetry - 624 pages
 

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Page 32 - tis past, but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow : 'Twas there she nursed me ; 'twas there she died : And Memory flows with lava tide.
Page 31 - I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ; I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs. 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would ye learn the spell ? — a mother sat there ; And a sacred thing is that old Arm-chair.
Page 32 - She told me shame would never betide, With truth for my creed and God for my guide ; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.
Page 391 - Work, work, my boy, be not afraid; Look labor boldly in the face; Take up the hammer or the spade, And blush not for your humble place. There's glory in the shuttle's song; There's triumph in the anvil's stroke; There's merit in the brave and strong Who dig the mine or fell the oak.
Page 166 - He fought, but not with love of strife ; he struck but to defend ; And ere he turned a people's foe, he sought to be a friend. He strove to keep his country's right by reason's gentle word, And sighed when fell injustice threw the challenge — sword to sword.
Page 166 - Caesar, great and brave, but stain was on his wreath ; He lived the heartless conqueror, and died the tyrant's death. France had its eagle, but his wings, though lofty they might soar, Were spread in false ambition's flight, and dipped in murder's gore. Those hero-gods, whose mighty sway would fain have...
Page 69 - Tis a rich, rough gem, deny it who can; And this is the heart of an Englishman. The Briton may traverse the pole or the zone, And boldly claim his right; For he calls such a vast domain his own, That the sun never sets on his might. Let the haughty stranger seek to know The place of his home and birth; And a flush will pour from cheek to brow; While he tells his native earth. For a glorious charter, deny it who can. Is breathed in the words,
Page 66 - His young bride stood beside his bed, Her weeping watch to keep ; Hush ! hush ! he stirred not — was he dead, Or did he only sleep ? His brow was calm, no change was there, No sigh had filled his breath ; Oh ! did he wear that smile so fair In slumber, or in death ?
Page 17 - That other league. My limbs, my heart, All failed ; I felt my sinews start With the last shudder of despair; And Hope expired — my grave was there. " 'Twas Thirst, 'twas maddening Thirst alone, That wrung my spirit's inmost groan. Hunger is bitter, but the worst Of human pangs, the most accursed Of Want's fell scorpions, is Thirst.
Page 407 - Have ye poverty's pinching to cope with? Does suffering weigh down your might? Only call up a spirit to hope with, And dawn may come out of the night. Oh ! much may be done by defying The ghost of Despair and Dismay, And much may be gained by relying On "Where there's a will there's a way.

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