Poems by James G. Percival ...Pub. for the author, A.H. Maltby & Company, printers, 1821 - Počet stran: 346 |
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Abdallah Almanzor Alonzo Alzira amid art thou beam beauty beneath billows bloom blow blue bosom brave breast breath bright brow canst charms clouds coursers dark dark funereal dastard dear dearest death dream dungeon fair feel fire flame flood flow flow'rs foam forever fury gale gloom glory glow Granada grave hear heart heaven heaving hope hour Ibrah ISMIR kindling light living Loch Maree locks dancing lonely lov'd lyre mantle mountain Mussulmen Mytilene ne'er neath never night noble o'er plain poison'd pow'r roar roll roll'd rose round scene seem'd shade shine shore sigh sleep slumber smil'd smile soft sorrow soul sound sparkling spirit stamp'd storm strain stream sweet sweetly swelling tear tempest thee thou throne tomb trembling twas vale vermil voice wake wave wild wind wings wretch Zamor zephyr
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Strana 129 - On thy fair bosom, silver lake, The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, And round his breast the ripples break, As down he bears before the gale.
Strana 84 - See the light pinnace Draws nigh to the shore, Swiftly it glides At the heave of the oar, Cheerily plays On its buoyant car, Nearer and nearer The lively guitar. Now the wind rises And ruffles the pine, Ripples foam-crested Like diamonds shine, They flash, -where the waters The white pebbles lave, In the wake of the moon, As it crosses the wave. Bounding from billow To billow, the boat Like a wild swan is seen On the waters to float ; And the light dipping oars Bear it smoothly along In time to the...
Strana 324 - THERE is a mourner, and her heart is broken ; She is a widow ; she is old and poor ; Her only hope is in that sacred token Of peaceful happiness when life is o'er ; She asks nor wealth nor pleasure, begs no more Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the sight Of her Redeemer. Sceptics, would you pour Your blasting vials on her head, and blight Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms and charms her being's night.
Strana 129 - On thy fair bosom, waveless stream! The dipping paddle echoes far, And flashes in the moonlight gleam, And bright reflects the polar star. The waves along thy pebbly shore, As blows the north wind, heave their foam, And curl around the dashing oar, As late the boatman hies him home.
Strana 324 - Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er With silent waters, kissing, as they lave, The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore Of matted grass...
Strana 85 - His gold-hilted sword At his bright belt is hung. His mantle of silk On his shoulder is flung, And high waves the feather, That dances and plays On his cap, where the buckle And rosary blaze. The maid from her lattice Looks down on the lake, To see the foam sparkle, The bright billow break, And to hear in his boat, Where he shines like a star, Her lover so tenderly Touch his guitar.
Strana 129 - As blows the north wind, heave their foam, And curl around the dashing oar, As late the boatman hies him home. How sweet, at set of sun, to view Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue Float round the distant mountain's side ! At midnight hour, as shines the moon, A sheet of silver spreads below, And swift she cuts, at highest noon, Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. On thy fair bosom, silver lake, O ! I could ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake,...
Strana 318 - Though darken'd in this poor life by a veil Of suffering, dying matter, we shall play In truth's eternal sunbeams ; on the way To heaven's high capitol our car shall roll, The temple of the Power whom all obey, That is the mark we tend to, for the soul Can take no lower flight, and seek...
Strana 73 - Perhaps there is scarcely a man who has once experienced the genuine delight of virtuous love, however great his intellectual pleasures may have been, that does not look back to the period as the sunny spot in his whole life, where his imagination loves to bask, which he recollects and contemplates with the fondest regrets, and which he would most wish to live over again.
Strana 319 - How awful is that hour, when conscience stings The hoary wretch, who on his death-bed hears, Deep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings, In one dark, damning moment, crimes of years, And screaming like a vulture in his ears, Tells one by one his thoughts and deeds of shame; How wild the fury of his soul careers! His swart eye flashes with intensest flame, And like the torture's rack the wrestling of his frame.