And wonder ye not if his speech be uncouth, Nor look ye much for his rhymes to be smooth,
15 lines
ON nerveless, tuneless lines how sadly
Ringing rhymes may wasted be,
7 lines
MY SOUL is raying like a star,
My heart is happier than a bird,
23 lines
HERE in this lonely rill-engirdled spot,
The world forgetting, by the world forgot,
166 lines
First see those ample melons-brindled o'er
With mingled green and brown is all the rind;
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High ’mid the shelves of a grey cliff, that yet
Riseth in Babylonian mass above,
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With a resplendent Eastern bride,
Like a houri at my side,
35 lines
Far up the River-hark! 'tls the loud shock
Deadened by distance, of some Fowler's gun:
49 lines, 1 comment
Flowers in their freshness are flushing the earth,
And the voice-peopled forest is loud in its mirth,
44 lines
Night was new-throned in heaven, and we did rove
Together in the cool and shadowless haze
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Not a bird disturbs the air!
There is quiet everywhere;
46 lines, 4 comments
Long ere I knew thee—years of loveless days,
A shape would gather from my dreams, and pour
55 lines, 2 comments
FAIR as the night—when all the astral fires
Of heaven are burning in the clear expanse,
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My country! I am sore at heart for thee!
An in mine ear, like a storm-heralding breeze,
14 lines
Part I
A lonely Boy, far venturing from his home,
224 lines
NIGHTLY I watch the moon with silvery sheen
Flaking the city house-tops, till I feel
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Still farther would I fly, my child,
To make thee safer yet,
52 lines, 1 comment
SHALL we sing of Loyalty
To the far South’s fiery youth?
25 lines
Spirit, that lookest from the starry fold
Of truth’s white flock, next to thy Milton there
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Still his little grave she seeketh
In her mother-sorrow wild,
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HIS lot how glorious whom the must shall name
Her first high-priest in this bright southern clime!
14 lines
MY OWN WILD BURNS! these rude-wrought rhymes of thine
In golden worth are like the unshapely coin
156 lines
A Dealer, bewitched by gain-promising dreams
Settled down near my Station, to trade with my Teams,
24 lines
We build but for change and for death,
To whom a like homage pay glory and shame;
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Mark yon runnel, how ’tis flowing,
Like a sylvan spirit dreaming
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A Genius caged in niceties of art;
A full-souled Bard that should have thought apart,
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MINE heart is heavy with an ancient sorrow,
My brain is aching with a clinging grief,
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Of Cora, once so dearly ours,
Would mournful memory sing;
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Could we as mortals but our end foresee,
How little in our minds the world would be;
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A few thin strips of fleecy cloud lies long
And motionless above the eastern steeps,
20 lines
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