The Amulet

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W. Baynes & Son, and Wightman & Cramp, 1835

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Seite 43 - When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's •waste...
Seite 225 - And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.
Seite 14 - And where the rose-leaf, ever bold, Hears bees chant hymns to God, The breeze-bow'd palm, moss'd o'er with gold, Smiles on the well in summer cold, And daisied sod. But thou, pale blossom, thou art come, And flowers in winter blow, To tell me that the worm makes room For me, her brother, in the tomb, And thinks me slow. For as the rainbow of the dawn Foretells an eve of tears, A sunbeam on the sadden'd lawn I smile, and weep to be withdrawn In early years.
Seite 28 - Galileo's glass by night observed The phases of the moon^ look round below On Arno's vale, where the dove-coloured steer Is ploughing up and down among the vines, While many a careless note is sung aloud, Filling the air with sweetness — and on thee, Beautiful Florence, all within thy walls, Thy groves and gardens, pinnacles and towers, Drawn to our feet.
Seite 13 - THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM. BEFORE thy leaves thou com'st once more, White blossom of the sloe ! Thy leaves will come as heretofore ; But this poor heart, its troubles o'er. Will then lie low. A month at least before thy time Thou com'st, pale flower, to me ; For well thou know'st the frosty rime Will blast me ere my vernal prime, No more to be. Why here in winter ? No storm...
Seite 13 - BEFORE thy leaves thou com'st once more, White blossom of the sloe '. Thy leaves will come as heretofore ; But this poor heart, its troubles o'er, Will then lie low. A month at least before thy time Thou com'st, pale flower, to me ; For well thou know'st the frosty rime Will blast me ere my vernal prime, No more to be. Why here in winter ? No storm lowers O'er Nature's silent shroud!
Seite 68 - Those are sweetest, bubbling wild Through the laughter of a child. Harmonies from time-touched towers, Haunted strains from rivulets, Hum of bees among the flowers, Rustling leaves, and silver showers — These, ere long, the ear forgets ; But in mine there is a sound Ringing on the whole year round ; Heart-deep laughter that I heard, Ere my child could speak a word. Ah...
Seite 198 - He found her name beneath the snow-wreath wrought ; Then, from her grave, a knot of grass he brought, With tears and sighs. The hour of parting came, when feelings deep In the heart's depth awake. To his sad mother, pausing oft to weep, He gave a token, which he bade her keep For Edwin's sake. It was a grassy sprig, and auburn tress, Together twined and tied. He left them, then, for ever ! could they less Than bless and love that type of tenderness ? — Childless they died ! Long in their hearts...
Seite 16 - His life was but an April day — He loved and died ! " My mother smiles, then turns away, But turns away to weep ; They whisper round me — what they say I need not hear, for in the clay I soon must sleep.
Seite 258 - ... always resort to that spot in which they had previously been accustomed to repose. Although for days together they would sleep in the bed made up for them, yet on a sudden, from some unaccountable caprice, they would shift their resting-place, and seek repose behind a box, or in some dark retirement, in preference to their former habitation. They usually reposed side by side, looking like a pair of furred balls, and surly little growls issued from them when disturbed ; nevertheless, when very...

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