The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore: With a Memoir, Bind 3

Forsideomslag
Houghton, Mifflin, 1856
 

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Side 79 - There's a bower of roses by BENDEMEER'S' stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.
Side 79 - And a dew was distill'd from their flowers, that gave All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone. Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, An essence that breathes of it many a year...
Side 202 - Rebellion ! foul, dishonouring word, Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd The holiest cause that tongue or sword Of mortal ever lost or gain'd. How many a spirit, born to bless, Hath sunk beneath that withering name, Whom but a day's, an hour's success Had wafted to eternal fame...
Side 163 - And now — behold him kneeling there By the child's side, in humble prayer, While the same sunbeam shines upon The guilty and the guiltless one, And hymns of joy proclaim through Heaven The Triumph of a soul Forgiven...
Side 142 - Go, wing thy flight from star to star, From world to luminous world, as far As the universe spreads its flaming wall; Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years, One minute of heaven is worth them all...
Side 188 - How sweetly," said the trembling maid, Of her own gentle voice afraid, So long had they in silence stood, Looking upon that tranquil flood — " How sweetly does the moonbeam smile To-night upon yon leafy isle! Oft, in my fancy's wanderings, I've wish'd that little isle had wings.
Side 234 - Blest power of sunshine ! genial day, What balm, what life is in thy ray ! To feel thee is such real bliss, That had the world no joy but this, To sit in sunshine calm and sweet, — It were a world too exquisite For man to leave it for the gloom, The deep, cold shadow of the tomb...
Side 145 - Alla's wonderful Throne ? And the Drops of Life — oh ! what would they be In the boundless Deep of Eternity?" While thus she mused, her pinions fann'd The air of that sweet Indian land, Whose air is balm ; whose ocean spreads O'er coral rocks and amber beds...
Side 158 - Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright As they were all alive with light,— And yet more splendid, numerous flocks Of pigeons, settling on the rocks, With their rich restless wings, that gleam Variously in the crimson beam Of the warm west, — as if inlaid With brilliants from the mine, or made Of tearless rainbows, such as span Th
Side 208 - MY birth-day" — what a different sound That word had in my youthful ears! And how, each time the day comes round, Less and less white its mark appears! When first our scanty years are told, It seems like pastime to grow old; And, as Youth counts the shining links That Time around him binds so fast, Pleased with the task, he little thinks How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain, Who said — " were he ordained to run His long career of life again, He would do...

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