The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore, Volume 5

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Little, Brown, 1856
 

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Page 159 - ... languid way When brows are glowing, And faint with rowing, Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay, To whose sound through life we stray. The beams that flash on the oar awhile...
Page 224 - AY — down to the dust with them, slaves as they are, From this hour, let the blood in their dastardly veins, That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war, Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.
Page 206 - With an eloquence — not like those rills from a height, Which sparkle, and foam, and in vapour are o'er ; But a current that works out its way into light Through the filt'ring recesses of thought and of lore.
Page 180 - Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life, There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake. — It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife.
Page 297 - If up the Simplon's path we wind, Fancying we leave this world behind, Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear As, "Baddish news from 'Change, my dear: The Funds (phew ! curse this ugly hill !) Are lowering fast (what ! higher still ?), And (zooks ! we're mounting up to heaven !) Will soon be down to sixty-seven.
Page 7 - Here they were left far behind by all the rest of the school. Robert's ear in particular, was remarkably dull, and his voice untunable. It was long before I could get them to distinguish one tune from another.
Page 277 - Among the opening clouds shall shine, Divinity's own radiant sign ! Mighty MONT BLANC , thou wert to me , That minute , with thy brow in heaven , As sure a sign of Deity As e'er to mortal gaze was given.
Page 222 - They tell us of an Indian tree Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky May tempt its boughs to wander free, And shoot and blossom wide and high, Far better loves to bend its arms...
Page 193 - Twas his who, mourn'd by many, sleeps below. The sunny temper, bright where all is strife, The simple heart that mocks at worldly wiles, Light wit, that plays along the calm of life, And stirs its languid surface into smiles...
Page 332 - Oh, were it not for this sad voice, Stealing amid our mirth to say, That all, in which we most rejoice^ Ere night may be the earth-worm's prey ;— . But for this bitter — only this — Full as the world is brimm'd with bliss, And capable as feels my soul Of draining to its depth the whole, I should turn earth to heaven, and be, If bliss made gods, a deity...

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