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Showing: 1-10 results of 897

ARGUMENT. Apollo, enraged at the insult offered to his priest, Chryses, sends a pestilence upon the Greeks. A council is called, and Agamemnon, being compelled to restore the daughter of Chryses, whom he had taken from him, in revenge deprives Achilles of Hippodameia. Achilles resigns her, but refuses to aid the Greeks in battle, and at his request, his mother, Thetis, petitions Jove to honour her offended son at the expense of the Greeks.... more...

BOOK I. Achilles sing, O Goddess! Peleus' son;His wrath pernicious, who ten thousand woesCaused to Achaia's host, sent many a soulIllustrious into Ades premature,And Heroes gave (so stood the will of Jove)5To dogs and to all ravening fowls a prey,When fierce dispute had separated onceThe noble Chief Achilles from the sonOf Atreus, Agamemnon, King of men. Who them to strife impell'd? What power divine?10Latona's son and Jove's. For he,... more...

TEXAS VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND. The five poems immediately following indicate the intense feeling of the friends of freedom in view of the annexation of Texas, with its vast territory sufficient, as was boasted, for six new slave States. Up the hillside, down the glen,Rouse the sleeping citizen;Summon out the might of men! Like a lion growling low,Like a night-storm rising slow,Like the tread of unseen foe; It is coming, it is nigh!Stand your... more...

No species of poetry is more ancient than the lyrical, and yet none shows so little sign of having outlived the requirements of human passion. The world may grow tired of epics and of tragedies, but each generation, as it sees the hawthorns blossom and the freshness of girlhood expand, is seized with a pang which nothing but the spasm of verse will relieve. Each youth imagines that spring-tide and love are wonders which he is the first of human... more...

MASTER WILLIE. There was once a little boy called Willie. I never knew his other name, and as he lived far off behind the mountain, we cannot go to inquire. He had fair hair and blue eyes, and there was something in his face that, when you had looked at him, made you feel quite happy and rested, and think of all the things you meant to do by-and-by when you were wiser and stronger. He lived all alone with the tall aunt, who was very rich, in the... more...


THE BURIAL OF THE LINNET. Found in the garden—dead in his beauty.Ah! that a linnet should die in the spring!Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty,Muffle the dinner-bell, solemnly ring. Bury him kindly—up in the corner;Bird, beast, and gold-fish are sepulchred there;Bid the black kitten march as chief mourner,Waving her tail like a plume in the air. Bury him nobly—next to the donkey;Fetch the old banner, and wave it about:Bury... more...

 1. How, my dear Mary,—are you critic-bitten (For vipers kill, though dead) by some review, That you condemn these verses I have written, Because they tell no story, false or true? What, though no mice are caught by a young kitten, _5 May it not leap and play as grown cats do, Till its claws come? Prithee, for this one time, Content thee with a visionary rhyme.  2. What hand would... more...

THE VAGABOND It was deadly cold in Danbury town  One terrible night in mid November,  A night that the Danbury folk rememberFor the sleety wind that hammered them down,That chilled their faces and chapped their skin,  And froze their fingers and bit their feet,And made them ice to the heart within,      And spattered and scattered      And shattered and... more...

PETER PATTER told them to me,All the little rimes,Whispered them among the bushesHalf a hundred times.Peter lives upon a mountainPretty near the sun,Knows the bears and birds and rabbitsNearly every one;Has a home among the alders,Bed of cedar bark,Walks alone beneath the pine treesEven when it’s dark.Squirrels tell him everythingThat happens in the trees,Cricket in the gander-grassSings of all he sees;Rimes from bats and... more...

Introduction "Tell me, ye muses, what hath former agesNow left succeeding times to play upon,And what remains unthought on by those sagesWhere a new muse may try her pinion?" So Complained Phineas Fletcher in his Purple Island as long ago as 1633. Three centuries have brought to the development of lyric passion no higher form than that of the sonnet cycle. The sonnet has been likened to an exquisite crystal goblet that holds one sublimely... more...