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Page 163 - There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more...
Page 37 - The mansion's self was vast and venerable, With more of the monastic than has been Elsewhere preserved : the cloisters still were stable, The cells, too, and refectory, I ween : An exquisite small chapel had been able, Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene ; The rest had been reformed, replaced, or sunk, And spoke more of the baron than the monk.
Page 13 - Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated...
Page 57 - Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins, That almost freezes up the heat of life: I'll call them back again to comfort me.
Page 263 - There's nothing in this world can make me joy : Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale, Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man ; And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste, That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.
Page 193 - And thought whose sow had farrow'd last ; Against dissenters would repine, And stood up firm for right divine ; Found his head fill'd with many a system : But classic authors,— he ne'er miss'd 'em.
Page 248 - If she come in, she'll sure speak to my wife : My wife ? my wife ? what wife ! I have no wife. O, insupportable ! O heavy hour ! Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe Should yawn at alteration.
Page 157 - His rolling eies did never rest in place, But walkte each where for feare of hid mischaunce, Holding a lattis still before his face, Through which he stil did peep as forward he did pace.
Page 180 - Oh, think what anxious moments pass between The birth of plots, and their last fatal periods! Oh, 'tis a dreadful interval of time, Fill'd up with horror all, and big with death...
Page 51 - How vain all outward effort to supply The soul with joy! The noon-tide sun is dark, And music discord, when the heart is low : Avert its omen ! What a damp hangs on me ! These sprightly tuneful airs but skim along The surface of my soul, not enter there : She does not dance to this enchanting sound. How, like a broken instrument, beneath The skilful touch, my joyless heart lies dead, Nor answers to the master's hand divine ! A nt.