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Page 71 - The fig-tree, not that kind for fruit renown'd, But such as, at this day, to Indians known; In Malabar or Decan spreads her arms, Branching so broad and long, that in the ground The bended twigs take root, and daughters grow About the mother tree, a pillar'd shade, High overarch'd, and echoing walks between...
Page 72 - THEY tell us of an Indian tree, Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky May tempt its boughs to wander free, And shoot, and blossom, wide and high, Far better loves to bend its arms Downward again to that dear earth, From which the life, that fills and warms Its grateful being, first had birth. 'Tis thus, though woo'd by flattering friends, And fed with fame (if fame it be) This heart, my own dear mother, bends, With love's true instinct, back to thee ! LOVE AND HYMEN.
Page 286 - Wallowing unwieldy, enormous in their gait, Tempest the ocean : there leviathan, Hugest of living creatures, on the deep Stretched like a promontory, sleeps or swims, And seems a moving land ; and at his gills Draws in, and at his trunk spouts out, a sea.
Page 332 - Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be, As more of Heaven in each we see ; Some softening gleam of love and prayer Shall dawn on every cross and care.
Page 253 - Needs no show of mountain hoary, Winding shore, or deepening glen, Where the landscape in its glory Teaches truth to wandering men : Give true hearts but earth and sky, And some flowers to bloom and die, — Homely scenes and simple views, Lowly thoughts may best infuse.
Page 218 - Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances ! Honour'd and bless'd be the ever-green Pine ! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line...
Page 48 - tis, that you should carry me away: And trust me not, my friends, if, every day, I walk not here...
Page 235 - I see a column of slow-rising smoke O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. A vagabond and useless tribe there eat Their miserable meal. A kettle...
Page 332 - We need not bid, for cloistered cell, Our neighbour and our work farewell, Nor strive to wind ourselves too high For sinful man beneath the sky; The trivial round, the common task, Will furnish all we ought to ask; Room to deny ourselves, a road To bring us daily nearer God.
Page 71 - Some on the lower boughs which crost their way, Fixing their bearded fibres, round and round, With many a ring and wild contortion wound; Some to the passing wind at times, with sway Of gentle motion swung; Others of younger growth...