A garland of poems for the young

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Стр. 57 - Go, lovely Rose! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.
Стр. 35 - Wouldst softly speak and stroke my head and smile — Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart : the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.
Стр. 34 - Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession ! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Стр. 81 - You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive ; If two are in the churchyard laid, Then ye are only five." " Their graves are green, they may be seen...
Стр. 56 - When even at last the solemn hour shall come, And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I cheerful will obey; there, with new powers, Will rising wonders sing. I cannot go Where universal love not smiles around...
Стр. 80 - I met a little cottage girl, She was eight years old, she said ; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.
Стр. 36 - I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ; To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine : And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft — Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
Стр. 81 - Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother.
Стр. 51 - O'er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirrored in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down ! As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam. For, faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span, Nor lets the type grow pale with age That first spoke peace to man.
Стр. 9 - GOD might have bade the earth bring forth Enough for great and small, The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, Without a flower at all.

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