Tales of a Wayside Inn (Google eBook)

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Ticknor and Fields, 1863 - Poets, American - 225 pages
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Review: Tales of a Wayside Inn

User Review  - Joy Wells - Goodreads

Reads like Chaucer for Americans. Makes me want to memorize and recite. Make sure you read the last tale, Birds of Killingsworth. Imagine a world without birds. Read full review

Review: Tales of a Wayside Inn

User Review  - Matthew - Goodreads

I found some tales to be fantastic and some to be dreadfully boring. This is by no means a criticism of Longfellow's writing, however. My distaste for some of it is merely a result of my personal preference in subject matter. The more mythical tales simply did not particularly interest me. Read full review

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Page 19 - Good night!" and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide.
Page 24 - You know the rest. In the books you have read, How the British Regulars fired and fled, How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load.
Page 197 - Hang empty mid the cobwebs of his dreams! Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds Make up for the lost music, when your teams Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more The feathered gleaners follow to your door?
Page 210 - They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere.
Page 218 - OUT of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.
Page 167 - So hearts that are fainting Grow full to o'erflowing, And they that behold it Marvel, and know not That God at their fountains Far off has been raining...
Page 1 - As ancient is this hostelry As any in the land may be, Built in the old Colonial day, When men lived in a grander way, With ampler hospitality ; A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, Now somewhat fallen to decay, With weather-stains upon the wall, And stairways worn, and crazy doors, And creaking and uneven floors, And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall.
Page 197 - Think, every morning when the sun peeps through The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, How jubilant the happy 'birds renew Their old, melodious madrigals of love! And when you think of this, remember, too, 'Tis always morning somewhere, and above The awakening continents, from shore to shore, Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.
Page 55 - ROBERT of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, Apparelled in magnificent attire, With retinue of many a knight and squire, On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat And heard the priests chant the Magnificat And as he listened, o'er and o'er again Repeated, like a burden or refrain, He caught the words, " Deposuit potentes De sede, el exaltavit humiles " ; And slowly lifting up his kingly head He to a learned clerk beside him said, " What mean these words ? " The clerk...
Page 210 - CHILDREN'S HOUR BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour. I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper, and then a silence : Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting...

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