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Reeves and Turner., 1886

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Page 93 - Spirit of Nature ! here ! In this interminable wilderness Of worlds, at whose immensity Even soaring fancy staggers, Here is thy fitting temple. Yet not the lightest leaf That quivers to the passing breeze Is less instinct with thee : Yet not the meanest worm That lurks in graves and fattens on the dead Less shares thy eternal breath. Spirit of Nature ! thou ! Imperishable as this scene, Here is thy fitting temple.
Page 34 - Of grace, or majesty, or mystery •— But, undulating woods, and silent well, And leaping rivulet, and evening gloom Now deepening the dark shades, for speech assuming Held commune with him, as if he and it Were all that was...
Page 7 - Than gems or gold, the varying roof of heaven And the green earth lost in his heart its claims To love and wonder ; he would linger long In lonesome vales, making the wild his home...
Page 46 - No sense, no motion, no divinity — A fragile lute, on whose harmonious strings The breath of heaven did wander — a bright stream' Once fed with many-voiced waves— a dream Of youth which night and time have quenched for ever — Still, dark and dry, and unremembered now.
Page li - It represents a youth of uncorrupted feelings and adventurous genius led forth by an imagination inflamed and purified through familiarity with all that is excellent and majestic, to the contemplation of the universe.
Page 4 - Has shone within me, that serenely now And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre Suspended in the solitary dome Of some mysterious and deserted fane, I wait thy breath, great Parent, that my strain May modulate with murmurs of the air, And motions of the forests and the sea, Aind voice of living beings, and woven hymns Of night and day, and the deep heart of man.
Page 2 - Mother of this unfathomable world ! Favour my solemn song, for I have loved Thee ever, and thee only : I have watched Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps, And my heart ever gazes on the depth Of thy deep mysteries.
Page 12 - Sate near him, talking in low solemn tones. Her voice was like the voice of his own soul Heard in the calm of thought...
Page 12 - Herself a poet. Soon the solemn mood Of her pure mind kindled through all her frame A permeating fire : wild numbers then She raised, with voice stifled in tremulous sobs Subdued by its own pathos : her fair hands Were bare alone, sweeping from some strange harp Strange symphony, and in their branching veins The eloquent blood told an ineffable tale. The beating of her heart was heard to fill The pauses of her music, and her breath 170 Tumultuously accorded with those fits Of intermitted song.
Page 14 - Spread round him where he stood. Whither have fled The hues of heaven that canopied his bower Of yesternight ? the sounds that soothed his sleep, The mystery and the majesty of earth, The joy, the exultation ? His wan eyes Gaze on the empty scene as vacantly As ocean's moon looks on the moon in heaven.

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