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Page 52 - Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook, Behoves you then to ply your finest art. Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly ; And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear.
Page 52 - With yielding hand, That feels him still, yet to his furious course Gives way, you, now retiring, following now Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage ; Till, floating broad upon his breathless side, And to his fate abandoned, to the shore You gaily drag your unresisting prize.
Page 144 - Beams out of a great Lake or Pond into the Air, where it was formed into a Cloud. The country beyond these Hills northward is daunting terrible, being full of rocky Hills, as thick as mole-hills in a meadow and clothed with infinite thick woods.
Page 51 - Which, by rapacious hunger swallow'd deep, Gives , as you tear it from the bleeding breast Of the weak helpless uncomplaining wretch , Harsh pain and horror to the tender hand.
Page 51 - Now when the first foul torrent of the brooks, swell'd with the vernal rains, is ebb'd away; and, whitening, down their mossy-tinctur'd stieam descends the billowy foam ; now is the time, while yet the dark-brown water aids the guile, to tempt the trout. The well-dissembled fly, the rod fine-tapering with elastic spring, snatch'd from the hoary steed the floating line, and all thy slender wat'ry stores prepare.
Page 52 - Just in the dubious point, where with the pool Is mix'd the trembling stream, or where it boils Around the stone, or from the hollow'd bank Reverted plays in undulating- flow, There throw, nice-judging, the delusive fly ; And as you lead it round in artful curve, With eye attentive mark the springing game.
Page 52 - High to their fount, this day, amid the hills, And woodlands warbling round, trace up the brooks; The next pursue their rocky-channel'd maze, Down to the river, in whose ample wave Their little naiads love to sport at large.
Page 243 - The Great Spirit says this, and it must be so ! We are few and powerless before them ! We must bend before the storm ! The wind blows hard ! The old oak trembles ! Its branches are gone ! Its sap is frozen ! It bends ! It falls ! Peace, Peace, with the white men' — is the command of the Great Spirit — and the wish —the last wish — -of Passaconnaway.
Page 126 - Father, thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns ; thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look dowr .Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot towards heaven.
Page 140 - ... Old Willey looked into the night, And called upon his two hired men, And woke his wife, who struck a light ; Though her hand trembled, as she heard The horses whinnying in the stall, And — ' Children !' was the only word, That woman from her lips let fall. ' Mother !' the frighted infants cried, ' What is it ? has a whirlwind come ? ' Wildly the weeping mother eyed Each little darling, but was dumb.

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