The Ladies' Cabinet of Fashion, Music & Romance, Tom 8

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Geo. Henderson, 1847

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Strona 200 - Caesar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain, And when the fit was on him, I did mark How he did shake...
Strona 374 - Now through the passing cloud she seems to stoop, Now up the pure cerulean rides sublime. Wide the pale deluge floats, and streaming mild O'er the sky'd mountain to the shadowy vale, While rocks and floods reflect the quivering gleam, The whole air whitens with a boundless tide Of silver radiance, trembling round the world.
Strona 137 - As monumental bronze unchanged his look: A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook: Train'd from his tree-rock'd cradle to his bier The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear.
Strona 307 - Hair is at once the most delicate and lasting of our materials ; and survives us, like love. It is so light, so gentle, so escaping from the idea of death, that with a lock of hair belonging to a child or...
Strona 374 - As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, Ye constellations, while your angels strike, Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre.
Strona 351 - Since laws were made for every degree, To curb vice in others, as well as in me, I wonder we ha'n't better company Upon Tyburn tree.
Strona 374 - The vapours throws. Where creeping waters ooze, Where marshes stagnate, and where rivers wind, Cluster the rolling fogs, and swim along The dusky-mantled lawn. Meanwhile the Moon, Full-orbed, and breaking through the scattered clouds, Shows her broad visage in the crimsoned east.
Strona 209 - The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow, She draws her favours to the lowest ebb ; Her tides have equal times to come and go, Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web ; No joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in fine amend.
Strona 38 - Even the brook that leaps along Seems weary of its bubbling song, And, so soft its waters creep, Tired silence sinks in sounder sleep. The cricket on its banks is dumb, The very flies forget to hum ; And, save the waggon rocking round, The landscape sleeps without a sound. The breeze is stopt, the lazy bough Hath not a leaf that dances now ; The tottergrass upon the hill, And...
Strona 229 - Onward they came, a dark continuous cloud Of congregated myriads numberless, The rushing of whose wings was as the sound Of some broad river, headlong in its course Plunged from a mountain summit ; or the roar Of a wild ocean in the autumnal storm, Shattering its billows on a shore of rocks.

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