J.R. LOWELL.
Egeria! sweet creation of some heart
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair
As thine ideal breast; whate'er thou art
Or wert,--a young Aurora of the air,
The nympholepsy of some fond despair;
Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth,
Who found a more than common votary there
Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth,
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.
_Childe Harold, Canto IV_. LORD BYRON.
When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatched away.
_Eloise to Abelard_. A. POPE.
We figure to ourselves
The thing we like, and then we build it up
As chance will have it, on the rock or sand:
For Thought is tired of wandering o'er the world,
And homebound Fancy runs her bark ashore.
_Philip Van Artevelde, Pt. I. Act i. Sc. 5_. SIR H. TAYLOR.
FAREWELL.
Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been--
A sound which makes us linger;--yet--farewell.
_Childe Harold, Canto IV_. LORD BYRON.
All farewells should be sudden, when forever,
Else they make an eternity of moments,
And clog the last sad sands of life with tears.
_Sardanapalus_. LORD BYRON.
So sweetly she bade me "Adieu,"
I thought that she bade me return.
_A Pastoral_. W. SHENSTONE.
Pages:
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170