Conversations on poetry, by the author of the 'Buxton diamonds'.

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Page 34 - Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession ! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Page 33 - I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Page 95 - To hear the lark begin his flight And singing startle the dull night From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good-morrow Through the sweetbriar, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine...
Page 33 - I heard the bell toll'd' on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! But was it such ? — It was.
Page 127 - Delightful task ! to rear the tender thought, To teach the young idea how to shoot, To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind, To breathe th' enlivening spirit, and to fix The generous purpose in the glowing breast.
Page 34 - I would not trust my heart — the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. But no...
Page 92 - Where the great Sun begins his state Robed in flames and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight; While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o'er the furrowed land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale.
Page 125 - He knew his lord ; he knew, and strove to meet ; In vain he strove to crawl and kiss his feet ; Yet (all he could) his tail, his ears, his eyes, Salute his master, and confess his joys.
Page 27 - ... wood, — To thy protecting shade she runs, Thy tender buds supply her food ; Her young forsake her downy plumes To rest upon thy opening blooms. Flower of the desert though thou art ! The deer that range the mountain free, The graceful doe, the stately hart, Their food and shelter seek from thee ; The bee thy earliest blossom greets, And draws from thee her choicest sweets. Gem of the heath ! whose modest bloom Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor : Though thou dispense no rich perfume, Nor yet...
Page 124 - Thus, near the gates conferring as they drew, Argus, the dog, his ancient master knew: He not unconscious of the voice and tread, Lifts to the sound his ear, and rears his head; Bred by Ulysses, nourish'd at his board, But, ah!

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