Pictures of Nature in the Silurian Region Around the Malvern Hills and Vale of Severn

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H.W. Lamb, 1856 - 12 strani
 

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Stran 180 - As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie Couched on the bald top of an eminence; Wonder to all who do the same espy, By what means it could thither come, and whence; So that it seems a thing endued with sense : Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself...
Stran 127 - Every thing did banish moan, Save the nightingale alone : She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn, And there sung the dolefull'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity :
Stran 165 - Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower ; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind ; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be ; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering ; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.
Stran 211 - And thorns shall come up in her palaces, nettles and brambles in the fortresses thereof: and it shall be an habitation of dragons, and a court for owls.
Stran 302 - A SWARM of bees in May Is worth a load of hay; A swarm of bees in June Is worth a silver spoon; A swarm of bees in July Is not worth a fly.
Stran 127 - Ecstasy would pour its luscious strain, Till envy spurred the emulating thrush To start less wild and scarce inferior songs ; For while of half the year Care him bereaves...
Stran 128 - Fie, fie, fie" now would she cry; "Teru, teru," by and by: That to hear her so complain Scarce I could from tears refrain, For her griefs so lively shown Made me think upon mine own. — Ah, thought I, thou...
Stran 305 - Astarte, queen of Heaven, with crescent horns ; To whose bright image nightly by the moon Sidonian virgins paid their vows and songs...
Stran 323 - There haunts not any incubus but he. The maids and women need no danger fear To walk by night, and sanctity so near: For by some haycock, or some shady thorn, He bids his beads both even song ind morn.
Stran 120 - But mark with how peculiar grace yon wood, That clothes the weary steep, waves in the breeze Her sea of leaves ; thither we turn our steps, And by the way attend the cheerful sound Of woodland harmony, that always fills The merry vale between.

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