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Page 41 - And of an humbler growth, the other tall, And throwing up into the darkest gloom Of neighbouring cypress or more sable yew Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf That the wind severs from the broken wave ; The lilac, various in array, now white, Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set With purple spikes pyramidal, as if Studious of ornament, yet unresolved Which hue she most approved, she chose them all...
Page 284 - Of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth; Let's choose executors and talk of wills : And yet not so — for what can we bequeath Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own but death, And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
Page 172 - Let him that is a true-born gentleman, And stands upon the honour of his birth, If he suppose that I have pleaded truth, From off this brier pluck a white rose with me. Som. Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer, But dare maintain the party of the truth, Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.
Page 171 - Will I upon thy party wear this rose: And here I prophesy, — This brawl to-day, Grown to this faction, in the Temple garden, Shall send, between the red rose and the white, A thousand souls to death and deadly night.
Page 180 - Then," said the rose, with deepened glow, " On me another grace bestow." The spirit paused, in silent thought, — What grace was there that flower had not ? 'Twas but a moment, — o'er the rose A veil of moss the angel throws, And robed in nature's simplest weed. Could there a flower that rose exceed ? The Rose.
Page 146 - Rose, thou art the sweetest flower That ever drank the amber shower ; Rose, thou art the fondest child Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild. Even .the Gods, who walk the sky, Are amorous of thy scented sigh.
Page 264 - In genial spring, beneath the quiv'ring shade, Where cooling vapours breathe along the mead, The patient fisher takes his silent stand, Intent, his angle trembling in his hand: With looks unmov'd, he hopes the scaly breed, And eyes the dancing cork, and bending reed.
Page 285 - Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
Page 260 - By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song ; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion.