« AnteriorContinuar »
THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.
WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave
of that good man be?— By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, Under the twigs of a young birch tree!
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And his good sword rust;
His soul is with the saints, I trust.
S. T. Coleridge.
THERE was a little lawny islet,
Like mosaic, paven:
And its roof was flowers and leaves
Where nor sun nor showers nor breeze
Each a gem engraven:
Girt by many an azure wave
With which the clouds and mountains pave
A lake's blue chasm.
P. B. Shelley.
DEAR is my little native vale,
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree
In orange-groves and myrtle-bow'rs,
The shepherd's horn at break of day,
KNOW Ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine;
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
'Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the Sun
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done?
Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.
THE fountains mingle with the river
Nothing in the world is single,
See, the mountains kiss high heaven
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
P. B. Shelley.
THE violet loves a sunny bank,
The scarlet creeper loves the elm;
The sunshine kisses mount and vale,
The west winds kiss the clover blooms;
The oriole weds his mottled mate,
Heaven's marriage-ring is round the earth;
J. Bayard Taylor.
JENNY kissed me when we met,
Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I'm growing dull, but add—
Jenny kissed me!