The Hibernian Magazine. ..., Випуски 1 – 6

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John F. Fowler, 3 Crow Street., 1864

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Сторінка 104 - This is the forest primeval ; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?
Сторінка 175 - The immeasurable height Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, The stationary blasts of waterfalls, And in the narrow rent at every turn Winds thwarting winds, bewildered and forlorn, The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky...
Сторінка 179 - There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes ; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
Сторінка 181 - Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range; Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.
Сторінка 269 - All these he saw ; but what he fain had seen He could not see, the kindly human face, Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, The league-long roller thundering on the reef, The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd And blossom'd in the zenith...
Сторінка 34 - Body was willing to play with me. I remember I went into the Room where his Body lay, and my Mother sat weeping alone by it. I had my Battledore in my Hand, and fell a beating the Coffin, and calling Papa; for I know not how I had some slight idea that he was locked up there.
Сторінка 266 - The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels And on a sudden, lo! the level lake, And the long glories of the winter moon.
Сторінка 181 - Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board : no helmsman steers : I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail : With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail.
Сторінка 37 - Look yonder,— that hale, well-looking puppy! You ungrateful scoundrel, did not I pity you, take you out of a great man's service, and show you the pleasure of receiving wages? Did not I (five you ten, then fifteen, and twenty shillings a week to be sorrowful? —and the more I give you. I think the gladder you are I " *"From my own Apartment, TVoc.
Сторінка 61 - The staircase of Brick Court is said to have been filled with mourners, the reverse of domestic ; women without a home, without domesticity of any kind, with no friend but him they had come to weep for ; outcasts of that great, solitary, wicked city, to whom he had never forgotten to be kind and charitable.

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