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Сторінка 179 - Within thy airy shell By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale Where the lovelorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well: Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair That likest thy Narcissus are?
Сторінка 315 - That tell in homely phrase who lie below ; Sudden he starts ! and hears, or thinks he hears, The sound of something purring at his heels ; Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him, Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows ; Who gather round, and wonder at the tale Of horrid apparition tall and ghastly, That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand O'er some new-open'd grave; and, strange to tell! Evanishes at crowing of the cock.
Сторінка 49 - For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE ; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE.
Сторінка 221 - The best in this kind are but shadows ; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them.
Сторінка 163 - Mr. Davies mentioned my name, and respectfully introduced me to him. I was much agitated, and, recollecting his prejudice against the Scotch, of which I had heard much, I said to Davies, "Don't tell where I come from." "From Scotland," cried Davies, roguishly. "Mr. Johnson," said I, "I do indeed come from Scotland, but I cannot help it.
Сторінка 163 - I am willing to flatter myself that I meant this as light pleasantry to soothe and conciliate him, and not as an humiliating abasement at the expense of my country. But however that might be, this speech was somewhat unlucky; for, with that quickness of wit for which he was so remarkable, he seized the expression, "come from Scotland...
Сторінка 198 - Some feelings are to mortals given, With less of earth in them than heaven ; And if there be a human tear From passion's dross refined and clear, A tear so limpid and so meek, It would not stain an angel's cheek, 'Tis that which pious fathers shed Upon a duteous daughter's head...
Сторінка 75 - And labours hard to store it well With the sweet food she makes. In works of labour or of skill I would be busy too: For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do. In books, or work, or healthful play Let my first years be past, That I may give for every day Some good account at last.