Rosamond, pt. 4. Harry and Lucy, pts. 3 and 4

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Pàgina 13 - Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries—• No more I weep ; They do not sleep; On yonder cliffs, a griesly band, I see them sit; They linger yet, Avengers of their native land : With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.
Pàgina 17 - First with nice eye emerging Naiads cull From leathery pods the vegetable wool; With wiry teeth revolving cards release The tangled knots, and smooth the ravell'd fleece; Next moves the iron hand with fingers fine, Combs the wide card, and forms the eternal line...
Pàgina 15 - Humour can prevail, When Airs, and Flights, and Screams, and Scolding fail. Beauties in vain their pretty Eyes may roll ; Charms strike the Sight, but Merit wins the Soul.
Pàgina 38 - Who causeth them to grow every where, and bloweth the seeds about in winds, and mixeth them with the mould, and watereth them with soft rains, and cherisheth them with dews? Who fanneth them with the pure breath of heaven ; and giveth them colours and smells, and spreadeth out their thin transparent leaves ? How doth the rose draw its crimson from the dark brown earth, or the lily its shining white...
Pàgina 12 - RUIN seize thee, ruthless king ! Confusion on thy banners wait ! Though fann'd by conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears...
Pàgina 11 - Streams enrich the Lycian Plain; Our num'rous Herds that range the fruitful Field, And Hills where Vines their purple Harvest yield, Our foaming Bowls with purer Nectar crown'd, Our Feasts enhanc'd with Music's sprightly Sound? Why on those Shores are we with Joy survey'd, Admir'd as Heroes, and as Gods obey'd? Unless great Acts superior Merit prove, And vindicate the bount'ous pow'rs above.
Pàgina 8 - The hips and the haws are all gone, I can find neither berry nor sloe ; The ground is as hard as a stone, And I'm almost buried in snow. " My dear little nest, once so neat, Is now empty, and ragged, and torn ; On some trees should I now take my seat, I'd be frozen quite fast, before morn.
Pàgina 39 - Negro woman, who sittest pining in captivity, and weepest over thy sick child; though no one seeth thee, God seeth thee; though no one pitieth thee, God pitieth thee: raise thy voice, forlorn and abandoned one; call upon him from amidst thy bonds, for assuredly he will hear...
Pàgina 38 - There is little need that I should tell you of God, for every thing speaks of him. Every field is like an open book; every painted flower hath a lesson written on its leaves. Every murmuring brook hath a tongue ; a voice is in every whispering wind.
Pàgina 37 - ... broken ruins. Every leaf is of a different form; every plant hath a separate inhabitant. Look at the thorns that are white with blossoms, and the flowers that cover the fields, and the plants that are trodden in the green path. The hand of man hath not planted them; the sower hath not scattered the seeds from his hand, nor the gardener digged a place for them with nis spade.

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