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angels appeared artist asked beautiful began better Billy busy called cause child Christmas clouds cold cottage covered dark delightful Dolly door dreams early earth enclosure acts eyes face fair faith fancy feeling felt fever fire follow forest future give half hand happy hard head heart hill hope humble husband Irish Jack kind knew land leave light lived London looked Mickleen mind morning nature never night opened passed perhaps picture poor present reached round scarcely scene seemed side simple smile sorrow soul speak spirit stood strange streets Sullivan sure sweet tell thee thing thought told trees true truth turned walls wandered watch waters Weldon whole wife wish Wolfryche young youth
Стр. 21 - Past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.
Стр. 44 - They know not of the scanty meal With small pale faces round ; No fire upon the cold, damp hearth, When snow is on the ground.
Стр. 16 - And when stern Death, with skeleton hand, Has snatched the flower that grew in our breast, Do we not think of a fairer land, Where the lost are found, and the weary at rest ? Oh ! the hope of the unknown Future springs, In its purest strength o'er the coffin and shroud, The shadow is dense, but Faith's spirit-voice sings " There's a silver lining to every cloud.
Стр. 48 - Royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle. This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men— this little world. This precious stone set In the silver sea, This blessed spot, this earth, this realm, this England.
Стр. 122 - Mickleen, and even if there was no " crock of goold," life would be endurable again. The pot of praties was soon swinging on the fire, and a noggin of illicit whiskey — never scarce in the neighbourhood of the mountain — roused up the worn-out man, who seemed absolutely ravenous. From the date of his conversation with the blacking-seller, on London Bridge, Michael Cahill had been on the road. He had not kept his appointment with the old man. It was home he looked to. Spurred on by the thoughts...
Стр. 120 - ... midst of his dilemma, he stopped to ask a question from an old man selling blacking ; for Day and Martin, or the immortal Warren, had not then commenced their labours, and itinerant blacking merchants were common. " You are from Ireland, I believe ?" said the old man. , " Sorra the day's luck I 've seen since I left it,
Стр. 118 - There is not a cranny in the ruined churches or dilapidated castles that stud the hill -sides, or adorn the valleys of the garden-land of Erin, but that, in addition to the legends of " good people," leprocauns, or other traditionary, but somewhat visionary inhabitants of the place, a tale of hidden treasure is sure to be appended. Now Mickleen was a " small " farmer, and a very neglectful one. He was too much of a dreamer to be otherwise. He had gloated over the tales of treasure-troves, which were...
Стр. 68 - Yes, there surely was, as ray eye glanced over the scene — there was my ci-devant friend, Burnthe-Wind, as big and as burly as ever. There he stood, at the old corner, with his old fustian jacket, and a great bar of iron in his hand ; just as he was years ago, holding forth on the advantages of total abstinence. He had kept steady to the cause ; he had faltered not ; when all deserted the standard, he stood by it. Honest Jack!
Стр. 115 - Does not the reader think that it was, to say the least, a singular coincidence ? What glimpses of the supernatural are given to mortals? Certainly, there are thousands of wellauthenticated instances of presentiment — amongst which we must class some of the examples given previously. Others, apparently supernatural, are but the result of some operation of nature, which a little knowledge would soon unravel. Others are but the vagaries of an excited and diseased imagination—and lastly, the results...