This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1868 Excerpt: ...cause: the boards, we know, can yield Place for fierce contest, like the tented field.--Crabbe. POET.--POETS. The poet in a golden clime was born, With golden stars above; Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.--Tennyson. Love the poet, pretty one! He unfoldeth knowledge fair; Lessons of ...
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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1868 Excerpt: ...cause: the boards, we know, can yield Place for fierce contest, like the tented field.--Crabbe. POET.--POETS. The poet in a golden clime was born, With golden stars above; Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.--Tennyson. Love the poet, pretty one! He unfoldeth knowledge fair; Lessons of the earth and sun, And of azure air. He can teach thee how to reap Music from the golden lyre; He can show thee now to steep All thy thoughts in fire.--Barry Cornwall. Poets may boast, as safely vain, Their works shall with the world remain: Both bound together, live or die, The verses and the prophecy. Chaucer his sense can only boast, The glory of his numbers lost! Years have defaced his matchless strain, And yet he did not sing in vain.--Waller. Oh! 'tis a sleeping poet! and his verse Sings like the syren isles. An opulent soul Dropt in my path like a great cup of gold, All rich and rough with stories of the gods! POET (continued). Methinks all poets should be gentle, fair, And ever young, and ever beautiful: I'd have all poets to be like to this, --Gold-haired and rosy-lipped, to sing of Love. Alexander Smith. A terrible sagacity informs The poet's heart; he looks to distant storms, He hears the thunder ere the tempest roar, The billow ere it breaks upon the shore.--Cowper. There was a poet whose untimely tomb No human hands with pious reverence reared, But the charmed eddies of autumnal winds Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyramid Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness; A lovely youth, --no mourning maiden decked The lone couch of his everlasting sleep; Gentle, and brave, and generous, --no lorn bard Breathed o'er his dark fate one melodious sigh: He lived, he died, he sang in solitude. Strangers have wept to hear his passionate note
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