Handbook for Travellers in Wiltshire, Dorsetshire and Somersetshire

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J. Murray, 1869 - Dorset (England) - 440 pages
 

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1869 / n.p / 12

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Page 249 - I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) — To the island-valley of Avilion ; Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow. Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.
Page 343 - And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill ; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still ! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
Page 161 - Nymph of the grot, these sacred springs I keep And to the murmur of these waters sleep ; Ah ! spare my slumbers, gently tread the cave ; And drink in silence, or in silence lave.
Page 119 - UNDERNEATH this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse, SIDNEY'S sister, PEMBROKE'S mother ; Death ! ere thou hast slain another, Learn'd and fair, and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee.
Page 343 - ... boy, That he shouts with his sister at play ! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay ! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill ; But O for the touch of a...
Page 53 - Either of the Three Volumes or Parts of the Alpine Guide may be had with this INTRODUCTION prefixed, price Is.
Page 85 - As many days as in one year there be, So many windows in this church we see; As many marble pillars here appear As there are hours throughout the fleeting year; As many gates as moons one year does view — Strange tale to tell! yet not more strange than true.
Page 117 - ... lord Broke that was, and that not long ago. Wherefore I would not for all the gold in the world...
Page 112 - T' entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's guile : Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore, Taught mid thy massy maze their mystic lore : Or Danish chiefs, enrich'd with savage spoil, To victory's idol vast, an unhewn shrine, Rear'd the rude heap, or in thy hallow'd ground Repose the kings of Brutus...
Page 343 - Low was our pretty Cot : our tallest rose Peep'd at the chamber-window. We could hear At silent noon, and eve, and early morn, The sea's faint murmur. In the open air Our myrtles...

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