The Local Historian's Table Book, of Remarkable Occurences, Historical Facts, Traditions, Legendary and Descriptive Ballads, &c., &c, Volume 2

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Page 98 - Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. "Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery...
Page 16 - The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chant it ; it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age.
Page 267 - He loved fairies, genii, giants, and monsters; he delighted to rove through the meanders of enchantment, to gaze on the magnificence of golden palaces, to repose by the waterfalls of Elysian gardens.
Page 306 - Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. Cromwell, I charge thee fling away ambition ; By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, . The image of his Maker, hope to win...
Page 112 - I have lived long enough : my way of life Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf ; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends...
Page 413 - So spake the seraph Abdiel, faithful found. Among the faithless faithful only he : Among innumerable false unmoved, Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified, His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal ; Nor number, nor example with him wrought To 'swerve from truth, or change his constant mind Though single.
Page 98 - Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen. And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.
Page 28 - And quickly hied he down the stair, Of fifteen steps he made but three; He's ta'en his bonnie love in his arms, And kist, and kist her tenderlie.
Page 160 - ... he comes flounce into bed, dead as a salmon into a fishmonger's basket; his feet cold as ice, his breath hot as a furnace, and his hands and his face as greasy as his flannel night-cap.
Page 308 - Though green at noon, cut down at night, Shows thy decay ; All flesh is hay, Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

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