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Page 249 - A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food: For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
Page 199 - The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece, around me see! The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Was not more free. Awake! (not Greece — she is awake!) Awake, my spirit! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, And then strike home!
Page 23 - O mother, mother! What have you done? Behold, the heavens do ope, The gods look down, and this unnatural scene They laugh at. O my mother, mother! O! You have won a happy victory to Rome; But for your son— believe it, O, believe it!— Most dangerously you have with him prevail'd, If not most mortal to him.
Page 244 - What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
Page 249 - ... records, promises as sweet; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With...
Page 93 - There were hills, which garnished their proud heights with stately trees ; humble valleys, whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers: .meadows, enamelled with all sorts of eye-pleasing' .flowers ; thickets, which being lined with most pleasant shade were witnessed so...
Page 199 - My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled, at its blaze — A funeral pile.
Page 240 - Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows. ' And here, on this delightful day, I cannot choose but think How oft, a vigorous man, I lay Beside this fountain's brink. ' My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.