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Antonio appeared arms beautiful began brother called Calton Hill Captain Cardo Charlotte Clara Clare castle Cowper cried dark daughter dear death delight door dress eyes face fair Fanny father fear feel fire Frederick Hume gentleman girl Gorbals grave hand happy Harz hast head hear heard heart heaven Hodnet Holydean honour horse trumpet hour husband Inchcape Rock Jack White Juliana knew lady laugh leave light live look lord Thurlow marriage Melrose Abbey mind Miss morning mother murderer never night o'er once Pisa poor returned Romelli rose round scene Scotland seemed seen side sister smile soon soul sound spirit stood stranger sweet tears tell thee thing thou thought took town turned Ursenstein village voice Waldeck walked wife wild William Cowper Wincanton window wish wonder words young youth
Page 93 - WE watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out. Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied—- We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came, dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed — she had Another morn than ours.
Page 94 - Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Page 201 - And still to love, though prest with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last — My Mary!
Page 94 - To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease ; For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.
Page 94 - Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Page 66 - She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
Page 66 - 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. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine ; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death...
Page 200 - Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more; My Mary!
Page 287 - IT was a' for our rightfu' King, We left fair Scotland's strand ; It was a' for our rightfu' King We e'er saw Irish land, My dear ; We e'er saw Irish land. Now a' is done that men can do, And a...
Page 287 - Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers blending, With distant echo from the fold and lea, And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee. Yet, once again farewell, thou Minstrel Harp ! Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway, And little reck I of the censure sharp May idly cavil at an idle lay.