The Poetical Works of Winthrop Mackworth Praed

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H. G. Langley, 1844 - 287 pages
 

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Page 213 - If he speaks of a tax or a duty, If he does not look grand on his knees, If he's blind to a landscape of beauty — Hills, valleys, rocks, waters and trees, If he dotes not on desolate towers, If he likes not to hear the blast blow, If he knows not the language of flowers, My own Araminta, say
Page 211 - If he ever drinks port after dinner, If his brow or his breeding is low, If he calls himself 'Thompson' or 'Skinner', My own Araminta, say 'No!
Page 183 - She smiled on many just for fun, — I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first, — the only one, Her heart had thought of for a minute. I knew it; for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand, — and oh!
Page 183 - Fly not yet" — upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows,- — and then we parted. We parted; months and years...
Page 168 - And warmed himself in court or college, He had not gained an honest friend, And twenty curious scraps of knowledge ; — If he departed as he came, With no new light on love or liquor, — Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar.
Page 180 - Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal ; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them to the Sunday Journal...
Page 213 - No!" He must walk like a god of old story, Come down from the home of his rest; He must smile like the sun in his glory, On the buds he loves ever the best ; And, oh ! from its ivory portal, Like music his soft speech must flow ! — If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, My own Araminta, say "No!
Page 169 - And sure a righteous zeal inspired The hand and head that penned and planned them, For all who understood, admired, And some who did not understand them.
Page 171 - Alack the change! in vain I look For haunts in which my boyhood trifled,— The level lawn, the trickling brook, The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled...
Page 75 - The cock doth crow ; It is time for the Fisher to rise and go. Fair luck to the Abbot, fair luck to the shrine ! He hath gnawed in twain my choicest line ; Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the south, The Abbot will carry my hook in his mouth...

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