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Chidley, 1846 - 359 pages

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Page 24 - Which neither groves nor happy valleys boast ; Where other cares than those the Muse relates, And other Shepherds dwell with other mates ; By such examples taught, I paint the Cot, As truth will paint it and as bards will not.
Page 24 - Where the thin harvest waves its withered ears ; Rank weeds, that every art and care defy, Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted rye : There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar, And to the ragged infant threaten war ; There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil ; There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil ; Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf, The slimy nlallow waves her silky leaf; O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade, And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade...
Page 131 - Far off, the petrel in the troubled way Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray; She rises often, often drops again, And sports at ease on the tempestuous main.
Page 204 - Myriads of living points; th' unaided eye Can but the fire and not the form descry. And now your view upon the ocean turn, And there the splendour of the waves discern ; Cast but a stone, or strike them with an oar, And you shall flames within the deep explore; Or scoop the stream phosphoric as you stand, And the cold flames shall flash along your hand; When, lost in wonder, you shall walk and gaze On weeds that sparkle, and on waves that blaze.
Page 31 - And, skill'd at whist, devotes the night to play: Then, while such honours bloom around his head, Shall he sit sadly by the sick man's bed, To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal To combat fears that e'en the pious feel? Now once again the gloomy scene explore, Less gloomy now; the bitter hour is o'er, The man of many sorrows sighs no more...
Page 84 - And pleased by manners most unlike her own ; Loud though in love, and confident though young ; Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue ; By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade, He served the 'Squire, and...
Page 25 - Draws from his plough th' intoxicated swain ; Want only claim'd the lahour of the day, But vice now steals his nightly rest away. Where are the swains, who, daily labour done, With rural games play'd down the setting sun ; Who struck with matchless force the bounding ball, Or made the pond'rous quoit obliquely fall ; While some huge Ajax, terrible and strong, Engaged some artful stripling of the throng, And fell beneath him...
Page 131 - Th' unwieldy porpoise through the day before Had roll'd in view of boding men on shore ; And sometimes hid, and sometimes show'd, his form, Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm. All where the eye delights, yet dreads, to roam, The breaking billows cast the flying foam Upon the billows rising — all the deep Is restless change; the waves so swell' d and steep, Breaking and sinking, and the sunken swells, Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells.
Page 357 - Books cannot always please, however good ; Minds are not ever craving for their food ; But sleep will soon the weary soul prepare For cares to-morrow that were this day's care : For forms, for feasts, that sundry times have past, And formal feasts that will for ever last.
Page 75 - There was he pinch'd and pitied, thump'd and fed, And duly took his beatings and his bread ; Patient in all control, in all abuse, He found contempt and kicking have their use : Sad, silent, supple ; bending to the blow, A slave of slaves, the lowest of the low ; His pliant soul gave way to all things base, He knew no shame, he dreaded no disgrace.

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