Young England's Little Library: A Collection of Original Tales for Children, in Prose and Verse

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Wm. S. Orr, 1844 - Всего страниц: 318

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Стр. 18 - O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice ? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice...
Стр. 19 - The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen. And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.
Стр. 21 - Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire ; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
Стр. 280 - m like to greet. The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, That thrilled through my heart, They're a' blawn by; I ha'e him safe, Till death we'll never part : But what puts parting in my head? It may be far awa' ; The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw.
Стр. 23 - Go forth, my heart, and seek delight In all the gifts of God's great might, These pleasant Summer hours." NDjiow comes rosy June; the blue-eyed hours, With song of birds, and stir of leaves and wings, And run of rills, and bubble of bright springs, And hourly burst of pretty buds to flowers...
Стр. 7 - The frost resolves into a trickling thaw. Spotted the mountains shine ; loose sleet descends, And floods the country round. The rivers swell, Of bonds impatient. Sudden from the hills, O'er rocks and woods, in broad brown cataracts, A thousand snow-fed torrents shoot at once ; And, where they rush, the wide-resounding plain Is left one slimy waste. Those sullen seas, That wash'd th...
Стр. 111 - ... her hand on it. However, when she found nothing could make him give it up, she ran and gathered some very large dock-leaves out of the hedge, and held them over John's and her own head to keep the heat of the sun off, all the time smiling and playing several little graceful tricks, as if she mocked a fine lady with her parasol, to the great delight of our friend John, who as he watched her sweet cheerful countenance and winning actions, thought he had never beheld such a pretty creature in all...
Стр. 96 - He's a dear, good little soul, and that's the truth on't," said Dame Barton to herself, as she listened to the eager footsteps of the boy, which crashed among the shingles, growing fainter and fainter every minute, till at last their sound could no longer be distinguished from the restless washing of the waves on the beach.
Стр. 120 - In the meantime, John Barton never for a moment lost sight of the main object which had induced him to come to Paris, so far from his own dear mother, and his own home in the little cottage under the cliffs. Whenever he was out, in all his long ramblings through the large city, he never failed to look at all the faces he met, in the hope of seeing one like that which he had often heard his mother describe as belonging to the French gentleman, who had been so much benefited by his father. Every name...
Стр. 94 - It is the only means I have of getting you a bit of bread, Johnny, since your poor father left us." " Don't cry, mother," said little John, running towards her ; " but I do so wish that I could do something myself to earn money enough to keep you from sticking so close to that bur — bur — burring wheel. I mean, something of real use to you...

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