A BUCKEYE ABROAD

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Сторінка 413 - The moon on the east oriel shone, Through slender shafts of shapely stone, By foliaged tracery combined ; Thou would'st have thought some fairy's hand, "Twixt poplars straight, the osier wand, In many a freakish knot, had twined ; Then framed a spell, when the work was done, And changed the willow wreaths to stone.
Сторінка 144 - Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer cloud, Without our special wonder...
Сторінка 210 - The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse; Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires
Сторінка 370 - And who, in time, knows whither we may vent The treasure of our tongue, to what strange shores This gain of our best glory shall be sent, T' enrich unknowing nations with our stores? What worlds in th' yet unformed Occident May come refined with th
Сторінка 388 - Witty above her sexe, but that's not all, Wise to Salvation was good Mistris Hall, Something of Shakespeare was in that, but this Wholy of him with whom she's now in blisse. Then, Passenger, ha'st ne're a teare, To weep with her that wept with all ? That wept yet set herself to chere Them up with comforts cordiall.
Сторінка 254 - Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun: Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light!
Сторінка 203 - God that made the world, and all things therein, seeing that he is Lord of heaven and earth, dwelleth not in temples made with hands...
Сторінка 433 - When all is done (he concludes), human life is at the greatest and the best but like a froward child, that must be played with, and humoured a little, to keep it quiet, till it falls asleep, and then the care is over.
Сторінка 386 - For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art, Thy easy numbers flow; and that each heart Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book, Those Delphic lines with deep impression took; Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much conceiving ; And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie, That kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die.
Сторінка 382 - I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine...

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