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arms beams beauty behold bless blood blow born bosom breast breath bride bright brother brow child dark daughter dead dear Death deep dream Earth Eleanora von Alleyne eyes face fair fall father fear feel fire flow flowers follow friends give glory glow gold golden gone grave green grief hall hand hast hath head hear heart Heaven hill hope hour Irish Karaman King Lady Eleanora land leave lies light live look Lord Mangan morn mother mourn never night noble o'er once passed pray rest roll roses round shine sleep song soon sorrow soul spake spirit stands star sweet sword tears thee thine thou thought throne Till turned voice wander waters wave weep wild winds young youth
Side 30 - All things are full of labour; man cannot utter it: the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.
Side 340 - All day long, in unrest, To and fro do I move. The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love! The heart in my bosom faints To think of you, my Queen, My life of life, my saint of saints, My dark Rosaleen!
Side 452 - And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow, And want, and sickness, and houseless nights, He bides in calmness the silent morrow, That no ray lights. And lives he still, then ? Yes ! Old and hoary At thirty-nine, from despair and woe, He lives enduring what future story Will never know. Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble, Deep in your bosoms ! There let him dwell ! He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble, Here and in hell.
Side 431 - In Siberia's wastes Are sands and rocks. Nothing blooms of green or soft, But the snow-peaks rise aloft And the gaunt ice-blocks. And the exile there Is one with those; They are part, and he is part, For the sands are in his heart, And the killing snows.
Side 13 - And he fell far through that pit abysmal, The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns, And pawned his soul for the devil's dismal Stock of returns. But yet redeemed it in days of darkness, And shapes and signs of the final wrath, When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness, Stood on his path.
Side 456 - tis half-past twelve o'clock ! After all, the hours do slip away — Come, here goes to burn another block ! For the night, or morn, is wet and cold ; And my fire is dwindling rather low : — I had fire enough, when young and bold Twenty golden years ago. Dear ! I don't feel well at all, somehow : Few in Weimar dream how bad I am ; Floods of tears grow common with me now, High-Dutch floods, that Reason cannot dam. Doctors think I'll neither live nor thrive If I mope at home so — I don't know —...
Side 246 - Twas Paradise on Earth awhile, and then no more : Ah ! what avail my vigils pale, my magic lore? She shone before mine eyes awhile, and then no more.
Side 451 - His mind grew dim. And he fell far through that pit abysmal, The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns, And pawned his soul for the devil's dismal Stock of returns.