Literary Hours: Or, Sketches Critical, Narrative, and Poetical, Volume 3 (Google eBook)

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T. Cadell and W. Davies, London, 1804 - English literature
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Page 76 - Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attained his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along.
Page 83 - Since ghost there is none to affright thee. Let not the dark thee cumber ; What though the moon does slumber? The stars of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear without number.
Page 7 - But neither breath of morn when she ascends With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower, Glist'ring with dew, nor fragrance after showers, Nor grateful evening mild, nor silent night With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon, Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet.
Page 444 - To hear the solemn curfew ; by whose aid (Weak masters though ye be) I have be-dimm'd The noontide sun , call'd forth the mutinous winds , And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire , and rifted Jove's stout oak With his own bolt...
Page 27 - By a daisy whose leaves spread Shut when Titan goes to bed ; Or a shady bush or tree, She could more infuse in me, Than all Nature's beauties can, In some other wiser man.
Page 77 - We have short time to stay as you, We have as short a Spring ; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or anything. We die As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain ; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again.
Page 444 - Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves ; And ye that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him, When he comes back...
Page 75 - To BLOSSOMS FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last.
Page 222 - And, wondering, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound. Less than a god they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell, That spoke so sweetly, and so well.
Page 444 - By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites ; and you, whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms ; that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew...

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