The Seasons & Castle of Indolence ... The Farmer's Boy, Rural Tales, Banks of the Wye, &c. &c. By Bloomfield

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Scott, Webster&Geary; printed by A. Sweeting, 1842 - 415 من الصفحات
 

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الصفحة 152 - Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll. For me — when I forget the darling theme, Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray Russets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams, Or winter rises in the blackening east, Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat!
الصفحة 130 - Ah little think the gay licentious proud, Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround; They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, And wanton, often cruel, riot waste; Ah little think they, while they dance along, How many feel, this very moment, death And all the sad variety of pain.
الصفحة 129 - Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, In joyless fields and thorny thickets, leaves His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man His annual visit. Half afraid, he first Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor, Eyes all the smiling family askance, And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is; Till more familiar grown, the table-crumbs Attract his slender feet.
الصفحة 151 - Ye forests, bend ; ye harvests, wave to him — Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart As home he goes beneath the joyous moon.
الصفحة 42 - Delightful task! to rear the tender thought, To teach the young idea how to shoot, To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind, To breathe the' enlivening spirit, and to fix The generous purpose in the glowing breast.
الصفحة 150 - THESE, as they change, Almighty Father, these, Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; And every sense, and every heart, is joy.
الصفحة 152 - Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song Burst from the groves ! and when the restless day, Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Sweetest of birds, sweet Philomela, charm The listening shades, and teach the night His praise.
الصفحة 92 - Raised the strong crane ; choked up the loaded street With foreign plenty; and thy stream, O Thames, Large, gentle, deep, majestic, king of floods ! Chose for his grand resort.
الصفحة 150 - With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year : And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales.
الصفحة 130 - His tufted cottage rising through the snow, He meets the roughness of the middle waste, Far from the track, and blest abode of Man ; While round him night resistless closes fast, And every tempest, howling o'er his head, Renders the savage wilderness more wild.

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