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Oxford University Press, 1874 - Electronic journals
 

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Page 40 - ... man be ? — By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, Under the twigs of a young birch tree ! The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, And whistled and roared in the winter alone, Is gone, — and the birch in its stead is grown. — The Knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust ; — His soul is with the saints, I trust.
Page 5 - Almighty hath not built Here for his envy, will not drive us hence: Here we may reign secure, and, in my choice, To reign is worth ambition, though in hell: Better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven.
Page 206 - No; were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion ! if reasons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I. P.
Page 285 - Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes : Those scraps are good deeds past : which are devour'd As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done...
Page 136 - THAT, AND A' THAT. Is there, for honest Poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that ; The coward slave — we pass him by ! We dare be poor for a
Page 247 - Her feet beneath her petticoat Like little mice stole in and out, As if they feared the light: But, oh ! she dances such a way— No sun upon an Easter day Is half so fine a sight.
Page 281 - THE lark now leaves his watery nest, And climbing, shakes his dewy wings: He takes this window for the east; And to implore your light, he sings. Awake, awake, the morn will never rise Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes. The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes; But still the lover wonders what they are, Who look for day before his mistress wakes. Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn! Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn.
Page 185 - Then to the well-trod stage anon If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
Page 127 - Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear : Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village- Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th...
Page 372 - With thee conversing I forget all time ; All seasons and their change, all please alike. Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun, When first on this delightful land he spreads His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower...

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