The Rhyme and Reason of Country Life: Or, Selections from Fields Old and New

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G.P. Putnam, 1855 - Всего страниц: 428
 

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Стр. 406 - Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud...
Стр. 105 - What thou art we know not: what is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not drops so bright to see, as from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Стр. 96 - Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee ! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry fays ; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
Стр. 106 - We look before and after And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Стр. 59 - Where some, like magistrates correct at home, Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad, Others, like soldiers, armed in. their stings, Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds, Which pillage they with merry march bring home To the tent-royal of their emperor...
Стр. 174 - GOD ALMIGHTY first planted a Garden. And indeed it is the purest of human pleasures. It is the greatest refreshment to the spirits of man; without which buildings and palaces are but gross...
Стр. 105 - Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Стр. 209 - Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath. And stars to set — but all — Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! THE LOST PLEIAD.
Стр. 96 - I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet...
Стр. 97 - Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain — To thy high requiem become a sod.

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