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Ivison, Blakeman,, 1888 - 1 стор.

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Сторінка 395 - The robin and the bluebird, piping loud, Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee; The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be; And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd, Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly, Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said: 'Give us, O Lord, this day, our daily bread!
Сторінка 86 - With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave : thou shalt not lack The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose...
Сторінка 77 - I," said the Sparrow, "With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin." Who saw him die? "I," said the Fly, "With my little eye, I saw him die.
Сторінка 52 - Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive!
Сторінка 153 - Oh, blithe newcomer; I have heard, — I hear thee and rejoice. Oh, cuckoo, shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
Сторінка 86 - Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave: Thou shalt not lack The flower, that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor The azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweeten'd not thy breath...
Сторінка 87 - Here scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen, are showers of violets found ; The red-breast loves to build and warble here, And little footsteps lightly print the ground ". As fine a stanza as any in his elegy.
Сторінка 57 - Tis winter, yet there is no sound Along the air, Of winds upon their battle-ground, But gently there, The snow is falling, — all around How fair — how fair ! The jocund fields would masquerade; Fantastic scene ! Tree, shrub, and lawn, and lonely glade Have cast their green.
Сторінка 163 - The saw was applied to the butt, the wedges were inserted into the opening, the woods echoed to the heavy blows of the beetle or mallet, the tree nodded to its fall ; but still the dam sat on. At last, when it gave way, the bird was flung from her nest ; and, though her parental affection deserved a better fate, was whipped down by the twigs, which brought her dead to the ground?
Сторінка 85 - ART thou the Bird whom Man loves best, The pious Bird with the scarlet breast, Our little English Robin ; The Bird that comes about our doors When Autumn winds are sobbing...

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