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The village patriarch, a poem [by E. Elliott]. by the author of Corn-law rhymes (Inglés) Tapa blanda – 6 feb 2012

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Tapa blanda, 6 feb 2012
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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.1831 Excerpt: ... The South hath gratitude; and slaves can feel--What can they feel? the rankling of their chain.' in. Our souls are lyres, that strangely can retain The tones that trembled on their stricken chords; And these, impress'd upon my heart, remain: But the sad monarchs, leaning on their swords, Vanish'd in darkness, with the closing words, Like voiceless mists o'er ocean's sleepy waves. IV. What saw I next? A temple pav'd with graves. Lo, on the floor a giant corpse lay bare! And thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand slaves, All dead and ghastly, kneel'd for ever there, Statues of baseness, worshipping despair! From many a battle-field, and many a sea, Cast forth by outrag'd earth, and loathing tide, They made a winter for eternity, And seem'd like suppliant demons side by side, For in their looks their crimes were petrified. Bound by a spell, which ne'er, methought, would break, Amid the dead I stood, the living one! And, lo, the tears were froz'n on every cheek! But ne'er in solitude felt I so lone, As in that crowd, whose tears were turn'd to stone. The Titan corse, sublime in stillness lay, With marble looks, like power and pride asleep; Oh, God! its dreadful silence could dismay More than the shriek of shipwreck o'er the deep; And every lifeless form did seem to weep, Gazing in tranced horror and remorse, On the sad features of the mighty dead, . While, on the forehead of that giant corse, In letters of eternal fire, I read This sentence: 'I am he for whom ye bled, Undying Death; feast, Dogs, but lap no blood.' t v. Then, lo, what, distant, seem'd the ocean's flood, Smote on my heart, with clamour fierce and foul. Wave shouldering wave, they shook me where I stood. No winds urg'd on the billowy, living roll, But whirlwind dwelt within it, like a soul, Heavin...

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