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Сторінка 25 - Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be ? " " How many ? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. " And where are they? I pray you tell.
Сторінка 26 - My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit — I sit and sing to them. " And often after sunset, sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. "The first that died was little Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain ; And then she went away.
Сторінка 56 - Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
Сторінка 98 - Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea, Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be. From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day; For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly warflame spread, High on St. Michael's Mount it shone: it shone on Beachy Head. Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, % Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire.
Сторінка 7 - Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid; Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid.
Сторінка 22 - Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day . The solitary child. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, — The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!
Сторінка 56 - By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him.
Сторінка 47 - ... ever ran ; And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew, I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new. " Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now, Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough...
Сторінка 56 - NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.
Сторінка 7 - Vainly we offer each ample oblation, Vainly with gifts would His favour secure ; Richer by far is the heart's adoration, Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.

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