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Page 108 - Upon the moss below, with her two palms Pressing it on each side, a maid in form. Downcast were her long eyelashes, and pale Her cheek, but never mountain-ash display'd Berries of colour like her lip so pure, Nor were the anemones about her hair Soft, smooth, and wavering like the face beneath. " What dost thou here ?" Echeion, half-afraid, Half-angry, cried.
Page 110 - Even among the fondest of them all, What mortal or immortal maid is more Content with giving happiness than pain ? One day he was returning from the wood Despondently. She pitied him, and said ' Come back ! ' and twined her fingers in the hem Above his shoulder.
Page 26 - The reciprocal civility of authors is one of the most risible scenes in the farce of life.
Page 161 - I was at 10 beholding him, I soon became familiar with his features. First they seemed only calm; presently they grew contemplative ; and lastly beautiful : those of the Graces themselves are less regular, less harmonious, less composed. Love glanced at him unsteadily, with a countenance in which there was somewhat of anxiety, somewhat of disdain; and cried, 'Go away! go away! nothing that thou touchest, lives.
Page 109 - Rhaicos went daily; but the nymph as oft, Invisible. To play at love, she knew, Stopping its breathings when it breathes most soft, Is sweeter than to play on any pipe. She...
Page 148 - That the Irish having robd Spensers goods, and burnt his house and a litle child new born he and his wyfe escaped, and after he died for lake of bread in King Street and refused 20 pieces sent to him by my Lord of Essex and said he was sorrie he had no time to spend them.
Page 146 - Sad is the day, and worse must follow, when we hear the blackbird in the garden and do not throb with joy.
Page 111 - tis and ever was my wish and way To let all flowers live freely, and all die, Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart, Among their kindred in their native place. I never pluck the rose ; the violet's head Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank And not reproacht me ; the ever-sacred cup Of the pure lily hath between my hands Felt safe, unsoiled, nor lost one grain of gold.
Page 82 - Beneath a mightier, sterner, stress of mind. Wakeful he sits, and lonely, and unmoved, Beyond the arrows, shouts, and views of men. As oftentimes an eagle, ere the sun Throws o'er the varying earth his early ray, Stands solitary — stands immovable Upon some highest cliff, and rolls his eye, Clear, constant, unobservant, unabased, In the cold light above the dews of morn.
Page 123 - There is yet something greater, more divinely mysterious, than all the great men, and that is the earth which bears them, the human race which includes them, the thought of God which stirs within them, and which the whole human race collectively can alone accomplish.