The Magazine of the beau monde; or, Monthly journal of fashion [afterw.] The Nouveau beau monde; or Magazine of fashion

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Page 35 - No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell : Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it ; for I love you so That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe.
Page 10 - Tu-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow And coughing drowns the parson's saw And birds sit brooding in the snow And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whit; Tu-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
Page 50 - And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall Hold o'er the dead their carnival, Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb; They were too busy to bark at him!
Page 155 - A rose's brief bright life of joy, Such unto him was given ; Go — thou must play alone, my boy! Thy brother is in heaven." "And has he left his birds and flowers; And must I call in vain? And through the long, long summer hours, Will he not come again? " And by the brook and in the glade Are all our wanderings o'er? Oh ! while my brother with me play'd, Would I had loved him more !
Page 10 - When icicles hang by the wall And Dick the shepherd blows his nail And Tom bears logs into the hall And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-whit; Tu-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
Page 1 - Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.
Page 151 - IT is not that my lot is low, That bids this silent tear to flow; It is not grief that bids me moan, It is that I am all alone.
Page 176 - I am not — the panegyrist of England. I am not dazzled by her riches, nor awed by her power. The sceptre, the mitre, and the coronet, — stars, garters, and blue ribbons, — seem to me poor things for great men to contend for. Nor is my admiration awakened by her armies mustered for the battles of Europe, her navies overshadowing the ocean, nor her empire grasping the farthest East.
Page 11 - Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore,— All, all are English. Oft have I looked round With joy in Kent's green vales ; but never found Myself so satisfied in heart before. Europe is yet in bonds ; but let that pass, Thought for another moment. Thou art free, My country ! and 'tis joy enough and pride For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass Of England once again, and hear and see, With such a dear companion at my side.
Page 32 - ... masses, which he could not grasp readily with his teeth, he pushed forwards, leaning against them with his right fore-paw and his chin. He never carried anything on his tail, which he liked to dip in water, but he was not fond of plunging in the whole of his body. If his tail was kept moist he never cared to drink ; but if it was kept dry it became hot, and the animal appeared distressed, and would drink a great deal. It is not impossible that the tail may have the power of absorbing water, like...

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