Exmoor: Or, The Footsteps of St. Hubert in the West

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T.C. Newby, 1849 - 441 Seiten
 

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Seite 115 - Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire ; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
Seite 302 - There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, •To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean— roll!
Seite 417 - I love all waste And solitary places; where we taste The pleasure of believing what we see Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be.
Seite 77 - As inward love breeds outward talk, The hound some praise, and some the hawk ; Some, better pleased with private sport, Use tennis, some a mistress court : But these delights I neither wish Nor envy, while I freely fish.
Seite 379 - To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man s dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'd.
Seite 418 - So, as we rode, we talked ; and the swift thought, Winging itself with laughter, lingered not, But flew from brain to brain...
Seite 131 - When we please to walk abroad For our recreation, In the fields is our abode, Full of delectation : Where in a brook With a hook, Or a lake, Fish we take : There we sit, For a bit, Till we fish entangle.

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