The Works of Mrs. Hemans: With a Memoir of Her Life, Volume 4

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William Blackwood, 1840

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Page 135 - Yet more ! the billows and the depths have more ! High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! They hear not now the booming waters roar, The battle-thunders will not break their rest. Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave...
Page 157 - THE boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but he had fled ; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead.
Page 183 - CHILD, amidst the flowers at play, While the red light fades away; Mother, with thine earnest eye Ever following silently ; Father, by the breeze of eve Called thy harvest-work to leave ; Pray! — ere yet the dark hours be, Lift the heart and bend the knee!
Page 249 - I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth.
Page 175 - tis lovely ! — Childhood's lip and cheek, Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought — Gaze — yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, And fragile...
Page 137 - Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer, They are nature's offering, their place is there ! They speak of hope to the fainting heart, With a voice of promise they come and part, They sleep in dust through the wintry hours, They break forth in glory — bring flowers, bright flowers ! THE CRUSADER'S RETURN. "Alas! the mother that him bare, If she had been in presence there, In his wan cheeks and sunburnt hair She had not known her child.
Page 1 - Long time against oppression have I fought, And for the native liberty of faith Have bled and suffered bonds.
Page 195 - Of this at least I feel assured, that there is no such thing as forgetting possible to the mind; a thousand accidents may and will interpose a veil between our present consciousness and the secret inscriptions on the mind; accidents of the same sort will also rend away this veil; but alike, whether veiled or unveiled, the inscription remains for ever...
Page 177 - Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set - but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
Page 173 - Flashed out o'er fretted stone. And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er, Like ashes by a breeze ; And gorgeous robes — but oh...

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