. One hundred and one famous poems, with a prose supplement. pine— Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget! The tumult and the shouting dies—The Captains and the Kings depart— Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget! Far-called, our navies melt away—On dune and headland sinks the fire— Lo, all our pomp of yesterdayIs one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not T
. One hundred and one famous poems, with a prose supplement. pine— Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget! The tumult and the shouting dies—The Captains and the Kings depart— Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget! Far-called, our navies melt away—On dune and headland sinks the fire— Lo, all our pomp of yesterdayIs one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-Such boasting as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget—lest we forget! For heathen heart that puts her trustIn reeking tube and iron shard— All valiant dust that builds on dust,And guarding, calls not-Thee to guard, For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! Amen! Page Forty-one <&nz ]&vuxb-vzb. nnh <&nv ^ ^xxems. The Cloud Percy Bysshe Shelley(Bom August 4, 1792; Died July S, 1X22) I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams;I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one,When rocked to rest on their mothers breast, As she dances about the wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under;And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast;And all the night tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the on the towers of my skyey bowers, Lightning, my pilot, sits;In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, It struggles and howls at fits;Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me,Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea;Over the rill
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1920, booksubjectenglishpoetry, bookye
