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Стр. 112 - And I saw three unclean spirits like frogs come out of the mouth of the dragon, and out of the mouth of the beast, and out of the mouth of the false prophet.
Стр. 372 - tis his fancy to run, At night he declines on his Thetis's breast. " So, when I am wearied with wandering all day, To thee, my delight, in the evening I come : No matter what beauties I saw in my way ; They were but my visits, but thou art my home ! " Then finish, dear Cloe, this pastoral war, And let us like Horace and Lydia agree ; For thou art a girl as much brighter than her, As he was a poet sublimer than me.
Стр. 261 - 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. 262 - It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale ; look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops; I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Стр. 377 - OFT, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me ; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken ; The eyes that shone, Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken ! Thus, in the stilly night...
Стр. 264 - Let hini on wt me ! By oppression's woes and pains ! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free...
Стр. 262 - Wilt thou be gone ? it is not yet near day : It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear ; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree : Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
Стр. 266 - O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly ! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly : And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary.
Стр. 377 - Fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine ; If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone ; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own.