Eliza Cook's journal, Tập 101854 |
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Abbotsford amongst answer appearance asked Battyr Bazouge beautiful better Birmingham called Chamonix character Charles Harpur child cholera church classes Courmayeur dark dear death door Drury Lane Eildon Hills England English eyes face father feel Fleet Street Friedli friends gentleman girl give hand happy head heard heart hills honour hour John Ketch Josephine labour lady Latitat live London look Lord marriage matter means Melrose Abbey ment mind Miss morning mother never night Niort once passed perhaps persons poor present quadrille replied Robert Owen Roger round scarcely Scotland seemed side Sir Walter Scott snow society soon spirit Street talk tell things thou thought tion took town turned village voice walk wife window woman women words young
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Trang 177 - What is that, Mother ? The swan, my love ! He is floating down, from his native grove ; No loved one, now, no nestling, nigh, He is floating down, by himself, to die; Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, Yet the sweetest song, is the last, he sings. Live so, my love, that when death shall come, Swanlike and sweet, it may waft thee home!
Trang 257 - INTO the sunshine, Full of the light, Leaping and flashing From morn till night ; Into the moonlight, Whiter than snow, Waving so flower-like When the winds blow ; Into the starlight Rushing in spray, Happy at midnight, Happy by day ; Ever in...
Trang 163 - The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air nests : but the son of man hath not where to lay his head.
Trang 295 - The moon on the east oriel shone, Through slender shafts of shapely stone, By foliaged tracery combined ; Thou would'st have thought some fairy's hand, "Twixt poplars straight, the osier wand, In many a freakish knot, had twined ; Then framed a spell, when the work was done, And changed the willow wreaths to stone.
Trang 49 - He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men's bosoms swell Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew. Then King Admetus, one who had Pure taste by right divine...
Trang 177 - The swan, my love !He is floating down from his native grove ; No loved one now, no nestling nigh, He is floating down, by himself to die : Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings. Live so, my love, that when death shall come, Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home.
Trang 151 - George's banner, broad and gay, Now faded, as the fading ray Less bright, and less, was flung; The evening gale had scarce the power To wave it on the donjon tower, So heavily it hung.
Trang 177 - What is that mother ? The eagle, boy ! Proudly careering his course of joy, Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying, Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying ; His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun, He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine, Onward and upward, and true to the line.
Trang 11 - But the greatest error of all the rest is the mistaking or misplacing of the last or furthest end of knowledge. For men have entered into a desire of learning and knowledge, sometimes upon a natural curiosity and inquisitive appetite ; sometimes to entertain their minds with variety and delight ; sometimes for ornament and reputation; and sometimes to enable them to victory of wit and contradiction; and most times for lucre and profession...
Trang 177 - What is that, mother ? The dove, my son. — And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan, Is flowing out from her gentle breast, Constant and pure by that lonely nest, As the wave is poured from some crystal urn, For her distant dear one's quick return. Ever, my son, be thou like the dove, — In friendship as faithful, as constant' in love. What is that, mother...