The Poetical Works of Mrs. Felicia Hemans

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Phillips, Sampson and Company, 1855 - 394 pages
 

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Page 122 - Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free...
Page 282 - Not there, not there, my child! Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, . And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange bright birds on their starry wings, Bear the rich hues of all glorious things? Not there, not there, my child!
Page 159 - Speak, Father!" once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone!" —And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on.
Page 122 - What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? — They sought a faith's pure shrine. Ay, call it holy ground, — The soil where first they trod! They have left unstained what there they found — Freedom to worship God ! Felicia Hemans.
Page 122 - When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame. Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear: — They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Page 112 - Through glowing orchards forth they peep. Each from its nook of leaves; And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves.
Page 283 - Not there, not there, my child! "Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; Dreams cannot picture a world so fair — Sorrow and death may not enter there : Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, — It is there, it is there, my child!
Page 159 - With fragments strewed the sea ! With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part — But the noblest thing that perished there, Was that young faithful heart.
Page 183 - O'er his low bed may weep. One sleeps where southern vines are drest, Above the noble slain ; He wrapt his colours round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain. And one — o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd ; She faded 'midst Italian flowers — The last of that bright band.
Page 388 - With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play, Send out their inmates in a happy flow, Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread With them those pathways, — to the feverish bed Of sickness bound ; — yet, oh my God ! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.

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