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Page 128 - The turtle to her mate hath told her tale. Summer is come, for every spray now springs: The hart hath hung his old head on the pale; The buck in brake his winter coat he flings ; The fishes flete with new repaired scale.
Page 304 - The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful ! I linger yet with nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man ; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learned the language of another world.
Page 302 - When I was yet a child, no childish play To me was pleasing ; all my mind was set Serious to learn and know, and thence to do What might be public good; myself I thought Born to that end, born to promote all truth, All righteous things...
Page 301 - Half dust, half deity, alike unfit To sink or soar, with our mixed essence, make A conflict of its elements, and breathe The breath of degradation and of pride, Contending with low wants and lofty will, Till our mortality predominates, And men are — what they name not to themselves, And trust not to each other.
Page 300 - Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains ; «° They crowned him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.
Page 20 - To get over this, my way is, to divide half a sheet of paper by a line into two columns; writing over the one pro, and over the other con; then during three or four days' consideration, I put down under the different heads short hints of the different motives, that at different times occur to me, for or against the measure. When I have thus got them all together in one view, I...
Page 284 - Nymph of a fair, but erring line ! " Gently he said — "One hope is thine. Tis written in the Book of Fate, The Peri yet may be forgiven Who brings to this Eternal Gate The Gift that is most dear to Heaven ! Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin — Tis sweet to let the Pardon'd in ! " Rapidly as comets run To th...
Page 286 - Cheer'd by this hope, she bends her thither ; — Still laughs the radiant eye of heaven, Nor have the golden bowers of even In the rich west begun to wither ; — When, o'er the vale of Balbec winging Slowly, she sees a child at play, Among the rosy wild-flowers singing, As rosy and as wild as they ; Chasing, with eager hands and eyes, The beautiful blue damsel-flies, That flutter'd round the jasmine stems, Like winged flowers or flying gems...
Page 287 - And how felt he, the wretched Man reclining there — while memory ran o'er many a year of guilt and strife, flew o'er the dark flood of his life, nor found one sunny resting-place, nor brought him back one branch of grace !