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Стр. 419 - 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. We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a Spring; As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or any thing. 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.
Стр. 481 - Oft hast thou decked, a favourite flower. Flower of the wild, whose purple glow Adorns the dusky mountain's side ! Not the gay hues of Iris' bow, Nor garden's artful varied pride, With all its wealth of sweets could cheer, Like thee, the hardy mountaineer. Flower of his heart, thy fragrance mild Of peace and freedom seems to breathe.
Стр. 255 - The eye that contemplates it well, perceives Its glossy leaves, Ordered by an intelligence so wise As might confound the atheist's sophistries.
Стр. 146 - Its flowers in their perfect state are among the loveliest objects in the vegetable world, and appear through a lens, like minute rubies and emeralds in constant motion from the least breath of air. It is the sweetest and most nutritious pasture for cattle ; and its usefulness, added to its beauty, induced the Hindoos in their earliest ages to believe that it was the mansion of a benevolent nymph.
Стр. 330 - The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid Will make or man or woman madly dote Upon the next live creature that it sees.
Стр. 339 - HOW could Fancy crown with thee In ancient days the God of Wine, And bid thee at the banquet be Companion of the vine? Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound Of revelry hath long been o'er, Where song's full notes once peal'd around, But now are heard no more.
Стр. 95 - I'll' autumnal bulb, till pale, declining days? The GOD OF SEASONS; whose pervading power Controls the sun, or sheds the fleecy shower : He bids each flower his quickening word obey, Or to each lingering bloom enjoins delay.
Стр. 480 - Here their delicious task the fervent bees, In swarming millions, tend. Around, athwart, Through the soft air, the busy nations fly, Cling to the bud, and, with inserted tube, Suck its pure essence, its ethereal soul. And oft, with bolder wing, they, soaring, dare The purple heath, or where the wild thyme grows, And yellow load them with the luscious spoil.
Стр. 578 - Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good! Hail, ye plebeian under-wood ! Where the poetic birds rejoice, And for their quiet nests and plenteous food Pay, with their grateful voice. Hail, the poor Muses...