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Стр. 253 - O READER ! hast thou ever stood to see The holly tree ? The eye that contemplates it well perceives Its glossy leaves Ordered by an intelligence so wise, As might confound the atheist's sophistries. Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen Wrinkled and keen ; No grazing cattle through their prickly round Can reach to wound ; But as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.
Стр. 366 - tis, to cast one's eyes so low! The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air, Show scarce so gross as beetles : Half way down Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade! Methinks, he seems no bigger than his head: The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, Appear like mice; and yon...
Стр. 328 - The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid Will make or man or woman madly dote Upon the next live creature that it sees.
Стр. 80 - In a farm-yard near the middle of this village stands at this day, a row of pollard-ashes, which, by the seams and long cicatrices down their sides, manifestly show that in former times they have been cleft asunder. These trees, when young and flexible, were severed and held open by wedges, while ruptured children, stripped naked, were pushed through the apertures, under a persuasion that, by such a process, the poor babes would be cured of their infirmity.
Стр. v - Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice Art In beds and curious knots, but Nature boon Pour'd forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain...
Стр. 528 - But nature makes that mean : so, over that art Which you say adds to nature, is an art That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry A gentler scion to the wildest stock, And make conceive a bark of baser kind By bud of nobler race : this is an art Which does mend nature, change it rather, but The art itself is nature.
Стр. 336 - Hast thou seen in winter's stormiest day The trunk of a blighted oak, Not dead, but sinking in slow decay, Beneath time's resistless stroke, Round which a luxuriant Ivy...
Стр. 473 - Oft hast thou decked, a favourite flower. Flower of the wild ! whose purple glow Adorns the dusky mountain's side, Not the gay hues of Iris' bow, Nor garden's artful varied pride, With all its wealth of sweets could cheer, Like thee, the hardy mountaineer. Flower of his heart!