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Page 35 - The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull.
Page 129 - MULLER, on a summer's day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But when she glanced to the far-off town, White from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast,— A wish, that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known.
Page 184 - Man wants but little here below." Little I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone (A very plain brown stone will do, That I may call my own — And close at hand is such a one, In yonder street that fronts the sun. Plain food is quite enough for me; Three courses are as good as ten; — If Nature can subsist on three, Thank Heaven for three. Amen!
Page 175 - ... upon his head with terror. What was to be done? To turn and fly was now too late; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was which could ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering accents, " Who are you ?
Page 35 - Like icicles from her deck. She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho! ho!
Page 6 - Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen ; But it wasna to meet Duneira's men, Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. It was only to hear the Yorlin sing, And pu...
Page 197 - Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight, "My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. Though foul are the drops that oft distil On the field of warfare, blood like this, For Liberty shed, so holy is, It would not stain the purest rill, That sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss!
Page 75 - For from cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky. He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he ; And he sat down upon the bank, Under the willow-tree.
Page 75 - A WELL there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen ; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.