A Treasury of Irish Poetry in the English TongueStopford Augustus Brooke, Thomas William Rolleston Smith, Elder, 1900 - 578 sider |
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Side xx
... the Rose of the World , and others too long to number ; but all of them belong to immortal beauty . One hardly wishes , for the sake of Art , that this Lady should lose all the sorrow by which her loveliness is veiled XX INTRODUCTION.
... the Rose of the World , and others too long to number ; but all of them belong to immortal beauty . One hardly wishes , for the sake of Art , that this Lady should lose all the sorrow by which her loveliness is veiled XX INTRODUCTION.
Side xxii
... beauty of their land , and the martyrdom of their people is their crown of light . A thousand poems are hidden as yet in this conception . Another distinctive mark of this poetry is what England calls Rebellion . Rebellion , even when ...
... beauty of their land , and the martyrdom of their people is their crown of light . A thousand poems are hidden as yet in this conception . Another distinctive mark of this poetry is what England calls Rebellion . Rebellion , even when ...
Side xxx
... beauty . And the austerity in the beauty is not the least charm in the poetry . We can claim for this Catholic and mystic poetry , of which Mr. Lionel Johnson is the chief singer , a real distinctive- ness . With the exception of ...
... beauty . And the austerity in the beauty is not the least charm in the poetry . We can claim for this Catholic and mystic poetry , of which Mr. Lionel Johnson is the chief singer , a real distinctive- ness . With the exception of ...
Side xxxi
... Beauty has no temple among their shrines , and it seems a pity that so large and influential a body of citizens should be incapable of producing any fine religious poetry . In Ireland , however , the immense store of poetic subjects ...
... Beauty has no temple among their shrines , and it seems a pity that so large and influential a body of citizens should be incapable of producing any fine religious poetry . In Ireland , however , the immense store of poetic subjects ...
Side xlii
... Beauty The Rose of the World ARMSTRONG : Introductory Notice by T. The Lake Isle of Innisfree W. Rolleston When you are Old The Scalp A Dream of a Blessed A Wicklow Scene Spirit Wicklow The Lamentation of the Old Through the Solitudes ...
... Beauty The Rose of the World ARMSTRONG : Introductory Notice by T. The Lake Isle of Innisfree W. Rolleston When you are Old The Scalp A Dream of a Blessed A Wicklow Scene Spirit Wicklow The Lamentation of the Old Through the Solitudes ...
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ancient race ballad Ballinasloe beauty blood bonnie green woods born boys brave breath bright brow Celtic Charles Gavan Duffy Congal County County Tipperary dark dark Rosaleen dead dear death died dream Dublin Dublin University Magazine Duffy Eileen aroon English Erin eyes fáilte fair fairy Ferguson friends Gael Gaelic George Darley GERALD GRIFFIN girl gone grave hand heart heaven hills hurroo Ireland Irish Irish poetry Karaman Kathleen King land light Limerick live Lord maid Moore mountain Nation ne'er never night o'er pale passion poems poet poetic poetry pride Rapparees Rory Rosaleen round Samuel Ferguson Shan Van Vocht sigh sing Siubhail sleep smile Soggarth aroon song sorrow soul spirit sweet sword T. W. ROLLESTON tears thee There's thou Trinity College Turloughmore Twas verse voice wave weep Widow Machree wild wind woods of Killeevy young Young Ireland
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Side 54 - We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
Side 55 - And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again ; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain ! But when I speak— thou dost not say, What thou ne'er left'st unsaid ; And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary ! thou art dead ! III.
Side 47 - Music, oh how faint, how weak, Language fades before thy spell ! Why should Feeling ever speak, When thou canst breathe her soul so well ? Friendship's balmy words may feign, Love's are ev'n more false than they ; Oh ! 'tis only music's strain Can sweetly soothe, and not betray.
Side 54 - By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
Side 226 - The day is bright as then, The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again ; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek, And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more may speak.
Side 46 - Oft, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me : The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken ; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken ! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me.
Side 55 - I on thee should look my last And thou should'st smile no more And still upon that face I look And think 'twill smile again, And still the thought I will not brook That I must look in vain. But when I speak thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid, And now I feel as well I may, Sweet Mary ! thou art dead ! If thou would'st stay, e'en as thou art, All cold and all serene, I still might press thy silent heart And where thy smiles have been.
Side 45 - At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there And tell me our love is...
Side 227 - Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone ; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow — I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger pain was gnawin...
Side 73 - I've heard bells tolling Old Adrian's mole in, Their thunder rolling From the Vatican, And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly.