The poor cousin [by E. Daniel] ed. by the author of 'The Scottish heiress', 3 vols

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Page 108 - Then die ! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee, — How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair.
Page 217 - O! the one life within us and abroad, Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, A light in sound, a sound-like power in light Rhythm in all thought, and joyance...
Page 186 - I have no other but a woman's reason ; I think him so, because I think him so.
Page 293 - Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches, from affection's deep, To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower ! And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship — therefore pray!
Page 176 - Any one's son but yours,' said Albinia, smiling. 'The connexion would be worse here than anywhere else; but I was not thinking of any one in our rank of life. There are many superior men in trade with whom she might be very happy.
Page 38 - She turn'd — and her mother's gaze brought back Each hue of her childhood's faded track. Oh! hush the song, and let her tears Flow to the dream of her early years ! Holy and pure are the drops that fall When the young bride goes from her father's hall; She goes unto love yet untried and new, She parts from love which hath still been true...
Page 198 - Little we recked of our coming years, We fancied them just what we chose ; For, whatever life's after lights may be, It colours its first from the rose. " So you are going to leave us?" said Ethel.
Page 50 - s no miniature In her fair face, but is a copious theme Which would, discoursed at large of, make a volume. What clear arch'd brows ! what sparkling eyes ! the lilies Contending with the roses in her cheeks, Who shall most set them off. What ruby lips ! — Or unto what can I compare her neck, But to a rock of crystal ? every limb...
Page 139 - A stranger I," the Huntsman said, Advancing from the hazel shade. The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar Pushed her light shallop from the shore, And, when a space was gained between, Closer she drew her bosom's screen (So forth the startled swan would swing, So turn to prune his ruffled wing).
Page 97 - Let not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of a woman. The Prairie. DOWN a broad river of the western wilds, Piercing thick forest glooms, a light canoe Swept with the current : fearful was the speed Of the frail bark, as by a tempest's wing Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray Rose with the cataract's thunder. — Yet within...

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