Songs of Three Centuries
John Greenleaf Whittier
Houghton, Mifflin, 1890 - American poetry - 383 pages
What people are saying - Write a review
We haven't found any reviews in the usual places.
Other editions - View all
Common terms and phrases
angels beauty bells beneath bird breast breath bright clouds cold comes dark dead dear death deep doth dream earth eyes face fair fall fear feel feet fire flow flowers give gone grave green grow hand happy hath head hear heard heart heaven hill hope hour Italy JOHN keep lady land leaves light live look Lord meet mind morning Nature never night o'er once pain pass peace praise rest rise rose round seemed seen shore side sight sing sleep smile soft song sorrow soul sound speak spirit spring stand stars stream summer sweet tears tell thee thine things thou thought tree true turn voice waves wild wind wings wish wood young
Page 18 - Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Page 186 - There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — The desert and illimitable air, — Lone wandering, but not lost, All day thy wings have fanned At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere ; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.
Page 200 - Hear the sledges with the bells, Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells.' How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars, that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells — From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Page 61 - Await alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Page 17 - That time of year thou may'st in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
Page 102 - River where ford there was none; But, ere he alighted at Nethe'rby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For. a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
Page 17 - And moan the expense of many a vanished sight: Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.
Page 100 - The stars of midnight shall be dear To her ; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height. Her virgin bosom swell ; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell.
Page 17 - Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least ; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate...
Page 28 - The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armour against fate ; Death lays his icy hand on kings : Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill : But their strong nerves at last must yield ; They tame but one another still : Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives,...