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Page 177 - What is that, Mother ? The swan, my love ! He is floating down, from his native grove ; No loved one, now, no nestling, nigh, He is floating down, by himself, to die; Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, Yet the sweetest song, is the last, he sings. Live so, my love, that when death shall come, Swanlike and sweet, it may waft thee home!
Page 163 - The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air nests : but the son of man hath not where to lay his head.
Page 295 - The moon on the east oriel shone, Through slender shafts of shapely stone, By foliaged tracery combined ; Thou would'st have thought some fairy's hand, "Twixt poplars straight, the osier wand, In many a freakish knot, had twined ; Then framed a spell, when the work was done, And changed the willow wreaths to stone.
Page 49 - He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men's bosoms swell Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew. Then King Admetus, one who had Pure taste by right divine...
Page 177 - The swan, my love !He is floating down from his native grove ; No loved one now, no nestling nigh, He is floating down, by himself to die : Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings. Live so, my love, that when death shall come, Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.
Page 151 - George's banner, broad and gay, Now faded, as the fading ray Less bright, and less, was flung; The evening gale had scarce the power To wave it on the donjon tower, So heavily it hung.
Page 177 - What is that mother ? The eagle, boy ! Proudly careering his course of joy, Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying, Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying ; His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun, He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine, Onward and upward, and true to the line.
Page 11 - But the greatest error of all the rest is the mistaking or misplacing of the last or furthest end of knowledge. For men have entered into a desire of learning and knowledge, sometimes upon a natural curiosity and inquisitive appetite ; sometimes to entertain their minds with variety and delight ; sometimes for ornament and reputation; and sometimes to enable them to victory of wit and contradiction; and most times for lucre and profession...
Page 177 - What is that, mother ? The dove, my son. — And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan, Is flowing out from her gentle breast, Constant and pure by that lonely nest, As the wave is poured from some crystal urn, For her distant dear one's quick return. Ever, my son, be thou like the dove, — In friendship as faithful, as constant' in love. What is that, mother...