The Poems of the Late James C. Doolittle (Classic Reprint) - Tapa blanda

Excerpt from The Poems of the Late James C. Doolittle

And. Then he strayed o'er barren lains, on tropic's burning sands Some cooling draught his parche tongue from charity demands; Some shade to shield his melting form, some pillow for his head; The cheerless wastes are all his bower, the serpent's lair his bed.

About the Publisher

Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com

This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.

Excerpt from The Poems of the Late James C. Doolittle

The Poet's Dream.

In drowsy lidded sleep ho lay, while vapors wild and fair
Stole o'er his brain with lightning speed, like wizards of the air;
And in their changeful drift of thought they wafted far and wide,
To plains of blood where carnage reigned, faro er the swelling tide.

And then the scenes that childhood knew, sweet laughter's merry note,
The flow'ry mead, the babbling brook, bright o'er his vision float;
But soon the flowers grew pallid there, the sun was clouded o'er,
And mournful thought transferred the scene far from his native shore.

And then again false fancy's spell, when led by gloomy Dis,
Has lured him to some slimy rock, o'erhanging dark abyss;
The spider's web, his brittle hold suspended in mid air,
And trembling for the fatal stroke, to hurl him to despair.

And then again the scene was changed; high on the billowy deep,
Where lightnings flash and thunders roar, the tempests vigil's keep;
The little bark that bore him up had yielded to the strife -
One shivered plank was all he held In that dread test for life.

And then he strayed o'er barren plains, on tropic's burning sands -
Some cooling draught his parched tongue from charity demands;
Some shade to shield his melting form, some pillow for his head;
The cheerless wastes are all his bower, the serpents lair his bed.

On, on he roams, dame Fortune's sport, bright Fame his beacon now;
On bended knee, at that cold shrine, he makes the sacred vow;
He clutches at the diadem, and hugs the fickle sprite -
Some unseen hand had daubed the dame, she's haggard In his sight.

Still dreams ho on, by Fancy led, as false as she is fair;
Italia's plains some goddess names as gemmed with beauties rare;
He seeks the gentle land of song, he breathes the fragrant air.

About the Publisher

Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com

This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.