Marian's trust, by the author of 'Ursula's love story'.

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Стр. 194 - What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind...
Стр. 1 - Alas! regardless of their doom The little victims play; No sense have they of ills to come Nor care beyond to-day: Yet see how all around 'em wait The ministers of human fate And black Misfortune's baleful train!
Стр. 22 - I have not loved the world, nor the world me ; I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd To its idolatries a patient knee — Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, — nor cried aloud in worship of an echo ; in the crowd They could not deem me one of such ; I stood Among them, but not of them...
Стр. 44 - Immers'd in rapt'rous thought profound, And Melancholy, silent maid With leaden eye, that loves the ground, Still on thy solemn steps attend : Warm Charity, the gen'ral Friend, With Justice to herself severe, And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.
Стр. 223 - Love! where is thy sympathy, If thus our breasts thou sever? But love is such a mystery, I cannot find it out; For when I think I'm best resolved, I then am in most doubt.
Стр. 209 - Of mine increas'd their stream ? Or ask the flying gales, if e'er I lent one sigh to them ? But now my former days retire, And I'm by beauty caught, The tender chains of sweet desire Are fix'd upon my thought.
Стр. 276 - And he said, little maid, will you wed, wed, wed ? I have little more to say, Than will you, yea or nay, For least said is soonest mended — ded, ded, ded. The little maid replied, Some say a little sighed, But what shall we have for to eat, eat, eat ? Will the love that you're so rich in, Make a fire in the kitchen ? Or the little god of Love turn the spit — spit, spit?
Стр. 82 - The poet carries this very far; None are for being what they are in fault, But for not being what they would be thought.
Стр. 173 - All other things to their destruction draw, Only our love hath no decay; This no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday, Running it never runs from us away, But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.
Стр. 82 - Baboons and apes ridiculous we find. For what? for ill-resembling human kind ; and poets find them worse than ridiculous ; they find them every whit as bad as men. Says Goldsmith : Of beasts it is confessed the ape Comes nearest us in human shape ; Like man, he imitates each fashion, And malice is his ruling passion.

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