The Bowdoin Poets

J. Griffin, 1840 - 188 pages

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Page 31 - White as a sea-fog, landward bound, The spectral camp was seen, And with a sorrowful, deep sound, The river flowed between. No other voice nor sound was there, No drum, nor sentry's pace ; The mist-like banners clasped the air, As clouds with clouds embrace. But, when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarmed air. Down the broad valley, fast and far, The troubled army fled ; Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead.
Page 142 - Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door ; The beloved, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more ; He, the young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strife, By the roadside fell and perished, Weary with the march of life...
Page 32 - ... heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul. Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, In Fancy's misty light, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Portentous through the night. Upon its midnight battle-ground The spectral camp is seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, Flows the River of Life between. No other voice nor sound is there, In the army of the grave ; No other challenge breaks the air, But the rushing of Life's wave.
Page 143 - And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air. O, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember...
Page 2 - Hence gifted bards Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. For them there was an eloquent voice in all The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds...
Page 30 - I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague. Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, TTiere stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead.
Page 26 - The babe was sleeping on her breast. And colder still the winds did blow, And darker hours of night came on, And deeper grew the drifting snow : Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone. " O God ! " she cried in accents wild, " If I must perish, save my child ! " She stripped her mantle from her breast, And bared her bosom to the storm.
Page 24 - Gray watcher of the waters ! Thou art king Of the blue lake ; and all the winged kind Do fear the echo of thine angry cry. How bright thy savage eye ! Thou lookest down, And seest the shining fishes as they glide ; And poising thy gray wing, thy glossy beak Swift as an arrow strikes its roving prey.
Page 21 - WELL do I love those various harmonies That ring so gayly in spring's budding woods, And in the thickets, and green, quiet haunts, And lonely copses of the summer-time, And in red autumn's ancient solitudes.
Page 26 - She stripped her mantle from her breast, And bared her bosom to the storm, And round the child she wrapped the vest, And smiled to think her babe was warm. With one cold kiss, one tear she shed, And sunk upon a snowy bed.

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