Mundi et cordis: de rebus sempiternis et temporariis: carmina. Poems and sonnets

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Page 116 - Holy and mighty poet of the Spirit That broods and breathes along the Universe! In the least portion of whose starry verse Is the great breath the sphered heavens inherit — No human song is eloquent as thine; For, by a reasoning instinct all divine, Thou feel'st the soul of things; and thereof singing, With all the madness of a skylark springing, From earth to heaven, the intenseness of thy strain, Like the lark's music all around us ringing, Laps us in God's own heart, and we regain Our primal...
Page 114 - Kneel down and drink, or flout in it for ever : The bonds of Spirit are asunder broken, And Matter makes a very sport of distance ; On every side appears a silent token Of what will be hereafter, when Existence Shall even become a pure and eqnal thing, And earth sweep high as heaven, on solemn wing.
Page 23 - A MIGHTY change it is — and ominous Of mightier, sleeping in eternity. The bare cliffs seem half-sinking in the sand, Heaved high by winter seas ; and their white crowns, Struck by the whirlwinds, shed their hair-like snow Upon the desolate air. Sullen and black, Their huge backs rearing far along the waves, The rocks lie barrenly, which there have lain...
Page iii - Chi vuoi far d'Elicona nascer fiume. Qual vaghezza di lauro? qual di mirto? Povera e nuda vai, filosofia, Dice la turba al vii guadagno intesa.
Page 24 - As they were mermaids' tresses, wildly torn For some sea-sorrow. The small mountain-stream, Swoln to a river, laves the quivering beach, And flows in many channels to the sea Between high shingly banks, that shake for ever. The solitary sea-bird, like a spirit, Balanced in air upon his crescent wings, Hangs floating in the winds, as he were lord Of the drear vastness round him, and alone Natured for such dominion. Spring and Summer And stored Autumn, of their liveries Here is no vestige ; Winter,...
Page 71 - They blest their Maker, with a simple mind ; And in the constant gaze of His all-seeing Eye, to his poorest creatures never blind, Deeming they dwelt, they bore their sorrows fleeing ; Glad still to live, but not afraid to die — In calm expectance of Eternity. And since I first did greet those braiders poor, If ever I behold fair women's cheeks Sin-pale in stately mansions, where the door Is shut to all but pride, my cleft heart seeks For refuge in my...
Page 253 - SV.-KKT cry! as sacred as the blessed hymn Sung at Christ's birth by joyful seraphim ! Exhausted nigh to death by that dread pain, That voice salutes me to dear life again. Ah, God ! my child! my first, my living child I I have been dreaming of a thing like thee Ere since, a babe, upon the mountains wild I nursed my mimic babe upon my knee.
Page 42 - I am here ! but not rejoicing With thine idle gladness ; From the music round us voicing I but gather sadness : Thou sittest on a tree uprooted, Which shall no more be leav'd or fruited ; Those minstrel birds, the bird of prey, Or winter and its want, shall slay ; Those insects are each other's slaughter ; And the sweet music of the water, Yon emerald cavern's mystic river, The falling earth strikes dumb for ever.
Page 71 - They blessed their Maker, with a simple mind ; And in the constant gaze of his all-seeing Eye, to his poorest creatures never blind, Deeming they dwelt, they bore their sorrows fleeing, Glad still to live, but not afraid to die, In calm expectance of Eternity. And since I first did greet those braiders poor, If ever I behold fair women's cheeks Sin-pale in stately mansions, where the door Is shut to all but pride, my cleft heart seeks For refuge in my thoughts, which then explore That pathway lone...
Page 32 - The sun on the calm sea sheddeth a golden glory, The rippling waves break whitely, The sands are level and the shingle bright, The green cliffs wear the pomp of heaven's light, And sea-weeds idle lightly Over the rocks ; but ye appear not, Dreams of Story ! Nymphs of the Sea ! Faith's heart hath fled from ye — hath fled; Ye are her boasted scorn ; Save to the poet's soul, the sculptor's thought, The painter's fancy, ye are now as nought : Mute is old Triton's horn, And with it half the voice of...

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