The Rose, the shamrock and the thistle, a magazine. Vol.1, June-vol.6, March, Volume 6

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Page 371 - Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door ; The beloved, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strife, By the road-side fell and perished, Weary with the march of life! They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more!
Page 205 - What does little birdie say In her nest at peep of day ? Let me fly, says little birdie, Mother, let me fly away. Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger. So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away. What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day ? Baby says, like little birdie, • Let me rise and fly away.
Page 206 - Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.
Page 363 - See the wretch, that long has tost On the thorny bed of pain, At length repair his vigour lost, And breathe and walk again : The meanest flow'ret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale, The common sun, the air, the skies, To him are opening paradise.
Page 181 - SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.
Page 371 - I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER I REMEMBER, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light!
Page 146 - And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead; Go to thy death-bed, He never will come again. His beard was as white as snow All flaxen was his poll, He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan: God ha
Page 148 - The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree, Sing all a green willow ; Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee, Sing willow, willow, willow...
Page 381 - tis so long, it is not very wide, For two are the most that together can ride ; And e'en...
Page 92 - Beg my dead body, which, living, was denied thee ; and either lay it at Sherborne, if the land continue, or in Exeter church, by my father and mother. I can say no more : time and death call me away.

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