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Seite 195 - The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Seite 169 - I care not, fortune, what you me deny ; You cannot rob me of free nature's grace ; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shows her brightening face, You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve : Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave : Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.
Seite 195 - RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM. OH that those lips had language ! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 'Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!
Seite 170 - In the day-time they had the range of a hall, and at night retired each to his own bed, never intruding into that of another. Puss grew presently familiar, would leap into my lap, raise himself upon his hinder feet, and bite the hair from my temples.
Seite 231 - But hark, the trump ! — to-morrow thou In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears : Ev'n from the land of shadows now My father's awful ghost appears Amidst the clouds that round us roll ; He bids my soul for battle thirst, He bids me dry the last — the first — The only tears that ever burst From Outalissi's soul ; Because I may not stain with grief The death-song of an Indian chief.
Seite 94 - The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together : our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our virtues.
Seite 231 - And by my side, in battle true, A thousand warriors drew the shaft? Ah ! there in desolation cold The desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown, Like me, are death-like old : Then seek we not their camp — for there The silence dwells of my despair.
Seite 18 - Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume ; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the bluebell and gowan lurk lowly unseen : For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. Tho...