Patriotic Song: a Book of English Verse: Being an Anthology of the Patriotic Poetry of the British Empire from the Defeat of the Spanish Armada Till the Death of Queen Victoria ...

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Arnold, 1903 - National songs - 363 pages
 

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Page 94 - For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
Page 211 - In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs — and God has given my share — I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose...
Page 24 - CROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a cloud Not of war only, but detractions rude, Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed...
Page 14 - From camp to camp through the foul womb of night The hum of either army stilly sounds, That the fixed sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each other's watch...
Page 46 - Bring me my bow of burning gold! Bring me my arrows of desire! Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire! I will not cease from mental fight, nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, till we have built Jerusalem in England's green and pleasant land.
Page 15 - God of battles ! steel my soldiers' hearts! Possess them not with fear ; take from them now The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers Pluck their hearts from them ! — Not to-day, O Lord, O not to-day, think not upon the fault My father made in compassing the crown...
Page 5 - FAIR stood the wind for France When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry; But putting to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Landed King Harry.
Page 67 - Trust not for freedom to the Franks — They have a king who buys and sells : In native swords and native ranks, The only hope of courage dwells ; But Turkish force and Latin fraud Would break your shield, however broad. !$•' Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! Our virgins dance beneath the shade...
Page 83 - Her court was pure ; her life serene ; God gave her peace ; her land reposed ; A thousand claims to reverence closed In her as Mother, Wife and Queen ; 142 The Epic 143 " And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons, when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet...
Page 67 - Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. Earth ! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead ! Of the three hundred grant but three To make a new Thermopylae ! What, silent still ? and silent all ? Ah ! no : the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, "Let one living head, But one, arise— we come, we come ! " 'Tis but the living who are dumb.

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