Little Lays for Little Folk

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George Routledge & Sons, 1867 - Animals - 115 pages
 

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Page 69 - He plied his work ; — and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe: With many" a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down ; And many a hill did Lucy climb: But never reached the town. The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At day-break on a hill they stood That overlook'd the moor; And thence...
Page 55 - Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life, and bid thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice?
Page 30 - In his wavering parachute. —But the Kitten, how she starts, Crouches, stretches paws, and darts! First at one, and then its fellow Just as light and just as yellow. There are...
Page 53 - TWINKLE, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are, Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky.
Page 68 - That, Father ! will I gladly do : 'Tis scarcely afternoon — The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon...
Page 29 - See the Kitten on the wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall, Withered leaves — one — two — and three — From the lofty elder-tree ! Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning bright and fair, Eddying round and round they sink Softly, slowly...
Page 67 - No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; She dwelt on a wide moor, — The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door...
Page 73 - Tis dreary crossing o'er the wold. He's crossing o'er the wold apace, He's stronger than the storm ; He does not feel the cold — not he, His heart it is so warm. For father's heart is stout and true, As ever human bosom knew.
Page 18 - ... snow-white flower ! Well are ye paired in your opening hour. Thus should the pure and the lovely meet, Stainless with stainless, and sweet with sweet. White as those leaves, just blown apart, Are the folds of thy own young heart ; Guilty passion and cankering care Never have left their traces there. Artless one ! though thou gazest now O'er the white blossom with earnest brow, Soon will it tire thy childish eye ; Fair as it is, thou wilt throw it by. Throw it aside in thy weary hour, Throw to...
Page 114 - Thy satin-threaded flowers. For dull the eye — the heart is dull, That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful, Thy tender blossoms are. How delicate thy gauzy frill, How rich thy branchy stem ; How soft thy voice when woods are still, And thou sing'st hymns to them ; While silent...

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