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Page 44 - 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, Glist'ring with dew; fragrant the fertile earth After soft showers ; and sweet the coming on Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night With this her solemn bird and this fair moon, And these the gems of heaven, her starry train...
Page 45 - For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still ; While words of learned length and thundering sound Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around. And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew.
Page 373 - O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat, With short shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn...
Page 206 - Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn, Im dunkeln Laub die Gold-Orangen glühn, Ein sanfter Wind vom blauen Himmel weht, Die Myrte still und hoch der Lorbeer steht, Kennst du es wohl? Dahin! Dahin Möcht ich mit dir, o mein Geliebter, ziehn.
Page 353 - Pretty ! in amber to observe the forms Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms ! The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there.
Page 199 - Ask where's the North ? at York, 'tis on the Tweed ; In Scotland, at the Orcades ; and there, At Greenland, Zembla, or the Lord knows where.
Page 44 - 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, Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth After soft showers; and sweet the coming on Of grateful evening
Page 263 - Sound needed none, Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank The spectacle ; sensation, soul, and form All melted into him ; they swallowed up His animal being ; in them did he live, And by them did he live ; they were his life.
Page 206 - My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears: My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, But rusted with a vile repose, For they have been a dungeon's spoil, And mine has been the fate of those To whom the goodly earth and air Are...