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53. oldal - Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : What if my leaves are falling like its own ! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one...
51. oldal - You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own ; What are you when the rose is blown ? So, when my mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me, if she were not design'd Th...
52. oldal - Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still The pensive Pleasures sweet Prepare thy shadowy car.
341. oldal - Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, That they might answer him. — And they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call, — with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild Of jocund din!
53. oldal - Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage ; Minds innocent and quiet take That for a hermitage : If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, — Angels alone that soar above Enjoy such liberty.
340. oldal - When he heard the owls at midnight, Hooting, laughing in the forest, "What is that ?" he cried, in terror ; "What is that?" he said, "Nokomis ?" And the good Nokomis answered : " That is but the owl and owlet, Talking in their native language, Talking, scolding at each other.
144. oldal - Every Stitch Described and Engraved with the utmost Accuracy, and the Quantity of Material requisite for each Pattern stated. Comprising; TATTING PATTERNS. EMBROIDERY PATTERNS. CROCHET PATTERNS. KNITTING AND NETTING PATTERNS.
52. oldal - Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill : But their strong nerves at last must yield ; They tame but one another still : Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; Upon Death's purple altar now See, where the victor-victim bleeds : Your heads must come To the cold tomb ; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet,...
54. oldal - Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon. My scrip of joy, immortal diet, My bottle of salvation, My gown of glory, hope's true gage; And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.