. One hundred and one famous poems, with a prose supplement. this restless feeling,And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters,Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music,Their mighty thoughts suggest Lifes endless toil and endeavor;And tonight I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer,Or tears from the eyelids start; Page One Hundred and Nine (font ]&mxitrzit nttit (font ^umans Tfittzms Who, through long days of labor,And
. One hundred and one famous poems, with a prose supplement. this restless feeling,And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters,Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music,Their mighty thoughts suggest Lifes endless toil and endeavor;And tonight I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer,Or tears from the eyelids start; Page One Hundred and Nine (font ]&mxitrzit nttit (font ^umans Tfittzms Who, through long days of labor,And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the musicOf wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care,And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice,And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with musicAnd the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,And as silently steal Love of Country From The Lay of the Last Minstrel Sir Walter Scott (Bom August 15, 1771; Died September 21,1832) Breathes there the man with soul so deadWho never to himself hath said: This is my own, my native land?Whose heart hath neer within him burnedAs home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand?If such there breathe, go mark him well;For him no minstrel raptures swell;High though his titles, proud his name,Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,Despite those titles, power and pelf,The wretch concentred all in self,Living, shall forfeit fair renown,And, doubly dying, shall go downTo the vile dust from whence he sprung,Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. Page One Hundred and Ten )it£ ^Inttitxtb ztnit <§nt ^nmtxxxs ^ms
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1920, booksubjectenglishpoetry, bookye
