Chambers's Papers for the People, Объемы 5-6

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Lippincott, 1856

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Стр. 31 - A SLUMBER did my spirit seal ; I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force ; She neither hears nor sees: Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees.
Стр. 31 - My horse moved on; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopped : When down behind the cottage roof, At once, the bright moon dropped. What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a lover's head! "O mercy!" to myself I cried, "If Lucy should be dead!
Стр. 21 - I confess, I love littleness almost in all things. A little convenient estate, a little cheerful house, a little company, and a very little feast ; and, if I were ever to fall in love again (which is a great passion, and, therefore, I hope, I have done with it) it would be, I think, with prettiness, rather than with majestical beauty.
Стр. 10 - But here, — above, around, below, On mountain or in glen, Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower, Nor aught of vegetative power, The weary eye may ken. For all is rocks at random thrown, Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone...
Стр. 8 - ... to feel One sadness, they and I. For them a bond Of brotherhood is broken: time has been When, every day, the touch of human hand Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up In mortal stillness; and they ministered To human comfort. Stooping down to drink, Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied The useless fragment of a wooden bowl, Green with the moss of years, and subject only To the soft handling of the elements: There let it lie — how foolish are such thoughts!
Стр. 3 - A gentle answer did the old Man make, In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew: And him with further words I thus bespake, 'What occupation do you there pursue ? This is a lonesome place for one like you.
Стр. 32 - Wha kills me wi' disdaining. Say, was thy little mate unkind, And heard thee as the careless wind ? Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, Sic notes o' woe could wauken ! Thou tells o' never-ending care; O' speechless grief, and dark despair : For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair ! Or my poor heart is broken.
Стр. 4 - God ! But thy most dreaded instrument In working out a pure intent. Is man — arrayed for mutual slaughter, — . Yea, Carnage is thy daughter...

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