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Seite 396 - Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn...
Seite 397 - Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down.
Seite 396 - Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. News from the humming city comes to it In sound of funeral or of marriage bells; And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear The windy clanging of the minster clock ; Although between it and the garden lies A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream, That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar, Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge Crown'd with the minster-towers.
Seite 25 - THE NATIONAL BUDGET; THE NATIONAL DEBT ; TAXES AND RATES. By AJ WILSON. THE STATE IN RELATION TO LABOUR. By W. STANLEY JEVONS, LL.D., FRS THE STATE AND THE CHURCH.
Seite 228 - Mountjoy rebounded, and stuck in the mud. A yell of triumph rose from the banks ; the Irish rushed to their boats, and were preparing to board ; but the Dartmouth poured on them a well-directed broadside, which threw them into disorder.
Seite 396 - Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Seite 299 - I have been writing a ballad, my dear ; I am oppressing my heroine with many misfortunes: I have already sent her Jamie to sea, and broken her father's arm, and made her mother fall sick, and given her auld Robin Gray for a lover, but I wish to load her with a fifth sorrow in the four lines, poor thing! help me to one, I pray.' — 'Steal the cow, sister Anne, said the little Elizabeth.
Seite 37 - READINGS FROM ENGLISH HISTORY. Selected and Edited by JOHN RICHARD GREEN, MA, LL.D., Honorary Fellow of Jesus College, Oxford. Three Parts. Globe 8vo.
Seite 229 - It is easy to imagine with what tears grace was said over the suppers of that evening. There was little sleep on either side of the wall. The bonfires shone bright along the whole circuit of the ramparts. The Irish guns continued to roar all night ; and all night the bells of the rescued city made answer to the Irish guns with a peal of joyous defiance.