May boast itself the fairest flower
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.
Though fair her gems of azure hue,
Beneath the dew-drop’s weight reclining;
I’ve seen an eye of lovelier blue,
More sweet through wat’ry lustre shining.
The summer sun that dew shall dry,
Ere yet the day be past its morrow;
No longer in my false love’s eye
Remain’d the tear of parting sorrow.
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We have roused the night raven, I heard him croakAs we plashed along beneath the oakThat flings its broad branches so far and so wide,Their shadows are dancing in the midst of the tide.‘Who wakens my nestlings,’ the raven he said,‘My beak shall ere morn in his blood be red,For a blue-swollen corpse is a…
I.
Though, lingering on the morning wind,We yet may hear the hourPealed over orchard and canal,With voice prolonged and measured fall,From proud St. Michael’s tower;Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now,Where the tall beeches’ glossy boughFor many a league around,With birch and darksome oak between,Spreads deep and far a pathless screen,Of tangled forest ground.Stems planted close…
Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright
When first thy mystic braid was wove,And first my Agnes whisper’d love.Since then how often hast thou prestThe torrid zone of this wild breast,Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwellWith the first sin that peopled hell;A breast whose blood’s a troubled ocean,Each throb the earthquake’s wild commotion!O if such clime thou canst endureYet keep…
Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,
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I.
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;For the gay beams of lightsome dayGild, but to flout, the ruins grey.When the broken arches are black in night,And each shafted oriel glimmers white;When the cold light’s uncertain showerStreams on the ruin’d central tower;When buttress and buttress, alternately,Seem framed of ebon and ivory;When silver edges the imagery,And the…
When dark December glooms the day,
When short and scant the sunbeam throws,Upon the weary waste of snows,A cold and profitless regard,Like patron on a needy bard,When silvan occupation’s done,And o’er the chimney rests the gun,And hang, in idle trophy, near,The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and spear;When wiry terrier, rough and grim,And greyhound, with his length of limb,And pointer, now employed no more,Cumber…