The English illustrated magazine [ed. by J. W. C. Carr].

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Joseph William Comyns Carr
1883

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Seite 161 - Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea ! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me ; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon...
Seite 160 - What does little birdie say In her nest at peep of day? Let me fly, says little birdie, Mother, let me fly away. Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger So she rests a little longer. Then she flies away. What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day? Baby says, like little birdie, Let me rise and fly away.
Seite 241 - The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.
Seite 346 - Thou must be patient; we came crying hither. Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the air, We wawl, and cry: — I will preach to thee; mark me. Glo. Alack, alack the day ! Lear. When we are born, we cry, that we are come To this great stage of fools...
Seite 344 - Too old, by heaven : let still the woman take An elder than herself : so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband's heart : For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, Than women's are.
Seite 155 - The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west : But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly ! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free.
Seite 351 - For the lips of a strange woman drop as an honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil: but her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on hell.
Seite 559 - Say, father Thames ! for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race, Disporting on thy margent green The paths of pleasure trace...
Seite 154 - A little child, a limber elf, Singing, dancing to itself, A fairy thing with red round cheeks That always finds and never seeks, Makes such a vision to the sight As fills a father's eyes with light...
Seite 386 - Scroope, Cook, and Jones, suffered for reward of their iniquities at Charing Crosse, in sight of the place where they put to death their natural Prince, and in the presence of the King his sonn , whom they also sought to kill. I saw not their execution, but met ; their quarters mangl'd and cutt and reeking as they were brought from the gallows in baskets on the hurdle.

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