#AmericanWriters #Epigram
Under Mount Etna he lies, It is slumber, it is not death; For he struggles at times to arise… And above him the lurid skies Are hot with his fiery breath.
Now Time throws off his cloak aga… Of ermined frost, and cold and rai… And clothes him in the embroidery Of glittering son and clear blue s… With beast and bird the forest rin…
When I compare What I have lost with what I have… What I have missed with what atta… Little room do I find for pride. I am aware
'O Edrehi, forbear to-night Your ghostly legends of affright, And let the Talmud rest in peace; Spare us your dismal tales of deat… That almost take away one’s breath…
Round Autumn’s mouldering urn Loud mourns the chill and cheerles… When nightfall shades the quiet va… And stars in beauty burn. 'Tis the year’s eventide.
Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senes… Et fugiunt freno non remorante die… Ovid, Fastorum, Lib. vi. 'O Cæsar, we who are about to die Salute you! ' was the gladiators’…
At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay… On board of the Cumberland sloop-… And at times from the fortress acr… The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast
Lo! in the paintedoriel of the We… Whose panes the sunken sun incarna… Like a fair lady at her casement,… The evening star, the star of love… And then anon she doth herself div…
All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme. Nothing useless is, or low;
Never stoops the soaring vulture On his quarry in the desert, On the sick or wounded bison, But another vulture, watching From his high aerial look-out,
In the Valley of the Vire Still is seen an ancient mill, With its gables quaint and queer, And beneath the window-sill, On the stone,
How cold are thy baths, Apollo! Cried the African monarch, the sp… As down to his death in the hollow Dark dungeons of Rome he descende… Uncrowned, unthroned, unattended;
Once the Emperor Charles of Spai… With his swarthy, grave commanders… I forget in what campaign, Long besieged, in mud and rain, Some old frontier town of Flander…
When the summer fields are mown, When the birds are fledged and flo… And the dry leaves strew the path; With the falling of the snow, With the cawing of the crow,
This is the forest primeval. The… Bearded with moss, and in garments… Stand like Druids of eld, with vo… Stand like harpers hoar, with bear… Loud from its rocky caverns, the d…