Works, Prose and Verse

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Crissy & Markley, 1850 - 672 pages
 

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Page 394 - ... mong myrtles, What time thou wanderest at eventide Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side Of thine enmossed realms : O thou, to whom...
Page 342 - I do love these ancient ruins. We never tread upon them but we set Our foot upon some reverend history; And, questionless, here in this open court, Which now lies naked to the injuries Of stormy weather, some men lie...
Page 394 - And gather up all fancifullest shells For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells, And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping ; Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping, The while they pelt each other on the crown...
Page 15 - ... the little keen bright eye fixed on the window ; then they would stop for two pecks ; then stay till they were satisfied. The shyer birds, tamed by their example, came next ; and at last one saucy fellow of a blackbird — a sad glutton, he would clear the board in two minutes, — used to tap his yellow bill against the window for more.
Page 209 - Farmer Creswell; a beautiful child lay on the ground at some little distance, whilst a young girl, resting from the labour of reaping, was twisting a rustic wreath of enamelled corn-flowers, brilliant poppies, snow-white lily-bines, and light fragile harebells, mingled with tufts of the richest wheat-ears, around its hat. There was something in the tender...
Page 13 - There had been just snow enough to cover the earth and all its colours with one sheet of pure and uniform white, and just time enough since the snow had fallen to allow the hedges to be freed of their fleecy load, and clothed with a delicate coating of rime. The atmosphere was deliciously calm; soft, even mild, in spite of the thermometer; no perceptible air, but a...
Page 13 - At noon to-day I and my white greyhound, May-flower, set out for a walk into a very beautiful world, — a sort of silent fairy-land,— a creation of that matchless magician the hoar-frost. There had been just snow enough to cover the earth and all its...
Page 7 - ... as a friend of mine calls such ignoble and non-descript dwellings, with inhabitants whose faces are as familiar to us as the flowers in our garden ; a little world of our own, close-packed and insulated like ants in an ant-hill, or bees in a hive, or sheep in a fold, or nuns in a convent, or sailors in a ship ; where we know every one, are known to every one, interested in every one, and authorised to hope that every one feels an interest in us.
Page 8 - She likes flowers too, and has a profusion of white stocks under her window, as pure and delicate as herself. The first house on the opposite side of the way is the blacksmith's ; a gloomy dwelling, where the sun never seems to shine ; dark and smoky within and without, like a forge. The blacksmith is a high officer in our little state, nothing less than a constable : but, alas ! alas ! when tumults arise, and the constable is called for, he will commonly be found in the thickest of the fray. Lucky...
Page 437 - ... on the board (Fast by, the rest lay sleeping in the sheath, But soon to fly, the messengers of death). Now sitting as he was, the cord he drew, Through every ringlet levelling his view : Then notch'd the shaft, released, and gave it wing ; The whizzing arrow vanish'd from the string, Sung on direct, and threaded every ring. The solid gate its fury scarcely bounds ; Pierced through and through the solid gate resounds.

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