. Perfect pearls of poetry and prose; the most unique, touching, inspiring and beautiful literary . one,Feel a glory in so rollingOn the human heart a stone—They are neither man nor woman—They are neither brute nor human— They are ghouls:And their king it is who tolls;And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, A pjEan from the bells!And his merry bosom swells With the pa3an of the bells IAnd he dances and he yells;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the paan of the bella—Of the bells;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bellfl—Of the b
. Perfect pearls of poetry and prose; the most unique, touching, inspiring and beautiful literary . one,Feel a glory in so rollingOn the human heart a stone—They are neither man nor woman—They are neither brute nor human— They are ghouls:And their king it is who tolls;And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, A pjEan from the bells!And his merry bosom swells With the pa3an of the bells IAnd he dances and he yells;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the paan of the bella—Of the bells;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bellfl—Of the bells, bells, bells, To the sobbing of the beila;Keeping time, time, time, THE HERMIT. 595 As he knells, knells, a happy Runic rhyme. To the rolling of the bells,Of the bells, bells, bells, To the tolling of the bells,Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-Bells, bells, bells,To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. THE HERMIT. JAMES BEATTIE. f T the close of the day, when the ham-let is mortals the sweets of forgetful-ness prove,When naught but the torrent isheard on the And naught but the nightingales song inthe grove,Twas thus by the cave of the mountain afar,While his harp rung symphonious, a her-mit began ;No more with himself or with nature at war,He thought as a sage, though he felt as aman : Ah ! why, all abandoned to darkness andwo«. Why, lone Philomela, that languishingfall?For spring shall return, and a lover be-stow,And sorrow no longer thy bosom , if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,^Mourn, sweetest complainer, rnancalls thee to mourn ;0, soothe him whose pleasures liketliine pass away !Full quickly they pass—but theynever return. Now gliding remote on the vergeof the sky,The moon, half extinguished, hercrescent displays;But lately I marked when majesticon highShe shone, and the planets werelost in her on, thou fair orb, and with glad-ness pursueThe path that conducts thee tosplendor again !But mans
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Keywords: ., bo, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1890, booksubjectenglishliterature
