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INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

471

Page
They that never had the use,

211
Thorough yon same bending plain,

48
Those lips, that Love's own hands did make,

427
Thou art to all lost love the best,

298
Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,

117
Three days ago, Lord Ronald's child,

300
Thrice happy he who by some shady grove,

184
Thrice, oh, thrice happy shepherd's life and state,

405
Thus talking, hand in hand alone they passed,

418
Thus to be lost, and thus to sink and die,

282
Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream !

163
'T is from high life, high characters are drawn,

407
'T is long since we were forced to part, at least it seems so to my grief, 443
To fair Fidele's grassy tomb,

315
To him who in the love of nature holds,

351
To whom belongs this valley fair,

190
'T was at the royal feast, for Persia won,

428
Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village green,

447
Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall,

146

Underneath this marble hearse,
Under the greenwood tree,
Up from the shore of the placid lake,

391
361
213

Vale of the cross, the shepherds tell,
Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,

329
56

86

128

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower!
Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,
Wee, sleekit, cowrin', timorous beastie,
Were there one whose fires,
What beckoning Ghost, along the moonlight shade,
What needs my Shakspeare for his honoured bones,
What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy,
What's hallowed ground? Has earth a clod,
When I consider how my light is spent,

321
297
225
366

15
111
350

When in disgrace, with fortune and men's eyes,
When I was a dweller in Cloudland,
When love with unconfined wings,
When maidens such as Hester die,
When May is in his prime,
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free,
When the sheep are in the fauld, when the cows come hame,
When we for age could neither read nor write,
Where the remote Bermudas ride,
Why came I so untimely forth,
Will you hear a Spanish lady,
With blackest moss the flower-plots,
With fingers weary and worn,
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climbst the skies,
With thee conversing I forget all time,

Page 58 18 72 43 414 392 354

44 364

70 137 265 273 187 130 233

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,
Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 't is true,
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more,

311

21 385

16 25

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