The Works of Thomas Moore, Esq, Volumen2

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G. Smith, 1825 - 6 páginas
 

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Página 47 - They made her a grave, too cold and damp "For a soul so warm and true; "And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, "Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp, "She paddles her white canoe.
Página 48 - Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds — His path was rugged and sore, Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds, And man never trod before. And, when on the earth he sunk to sleep, If slumber his eyelids knew, He lay, where the deadly vine doth weep Its venomous tear, and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew ! 128 THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.
Página 174 - I KNEW, by the smoke that so gracefully curled Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, And I said, " If there's peace to be found in the world, A heart that was humble might hope for it here...
Página 194 - Rapids are near and the daylight's past. Why should we yet our sail unfurl ? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl. But, when the wind blows off the shore, Oh ! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past. Utawas' tide ! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Página 174 - By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent lips, Which had never been sigh'd on by any but mine !
Página 48 - He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright Quick over its surface play'd— "Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!
Página 30 - Virtue ! when thy clime I seek, Let not my spirit's flight be weak : Let me not, like this feeble thing, With brine still dropping from its wing, Just sparkle in the solar glow And plunge again to depths below. But, when I leave the grosser throng With whom my soul hath dwelt so long, Let me, in that aspiring day, Cast every lingering stain away, And, panting for thy purer air, Fly up at once and fix me there.
Página 202 - Rank without ripeness, quicken'd without sun, Crude at the surface, rotten at the core, Her fruits would fall, before her spring were o'er ! Believe me, Spencer, while I wing'd the hours Where Schuylkill undulates through banks of flowers.
Página 198 - Where the blue hills of old Toronto shed Their evening shadows o'er Ontario's bed ! — Should trace the grand Cadaraqui, and glide Down the white rapids of his lordly tide Through massy woods, through islets flowering fair, Through shades of bloom, where the first sinful pair For consolation might have weeping trod, When banish'd from the garden of their God ! Oh, Lady ! these are miracles, which man Cag'd in the bounds of Europe's pigmy plan.
Página 47 - They tell of a young man, who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, wag never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses.

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