England and WalesHoughton, Mifflin, 1876 - English poetry |
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Page 28
... , kine and calves , do feed : The middle grounds thy mares , and horses breed . Each banck doth yeeld thee coneyes ; and the topps Fertile of wood , Ashore and Sydney's copps , To 28 POEMS OF PLACES . To PENSHURST B Jonson.
... , kine and calves , do feed : The middle grounds thy mares , and horses breed . Each banck doth yeeld thee coneyes ; and the topps Fertile of wood , Ashore and Sydney's copps , To 28 POEMS OF PLACES . To PENSHURST B Jonson.
Page 29
... doth provide The purple phesant , with the speckled side : The painted partrich lyes in every field , And for thy messe is willing to be kill'd . And if the high - swolne Medway faile thy dish , Thou hast thy ponds , that pay thee ...
... doth provide The purple phesant , with the speckled side : The painted partrich lyes in every field , And for thy messe is willing to be kill'd . And if the high - swolne Medway faile thy dish , Thou hast thy ponds , that pay thee ...
Page 30
... doth flow , With all that hospitality doth know ! Where comes no guest but is allow'd to eat , Without his feare , and of thy lord's owne meat : Where the same beere and bread , and selfe - same wine , That is his lordship's , shall be ...
... doth flow , With all that hospitality doth know ! Where comes no guest but is allow'd to eat , Without his feare , and of thy lord's owne meat : Where the same beere and bread , and selfe - same wine , That is his lordship's , shall be ...
Page 43
... doth from his cunning shift , Their short - fetched troubled breath a hollow noise doth make Like bellows of a forge . Then Corin up doth take The giant ' twixt the grains ; and voiding of his hold ( Before his cumberous feet he well ...
... doth from his cunning shift , Their short - fetched troubled breath a hollow noise doth make Like bellows of a forge . Then Corin up doth take The giant ' twixt the grains ; and voiding of his hold ( Before his cumberous feet he well ...
Page 51
... doth Time waste me ; For now hath Time made me his numbering clock . My thoughts are minutes ; and , with sighs , they jar Their motions unto mine eyes , the outward watch , Whereto my finger , like a dial's point , Is pointing still ...
... doth Time waste me ; For now hath Time made me his numbering clock . My thoughts are minutes ; and , with sighs , they jar Their motions unto mine eyes , the outward watch , Whereto my finger , like a dial's point , Is pointing still ...
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Common terms and phrases
Alexander Pope Allen-a-Dale ancient Anne hath Anne Hathaway banks bard beauty Bees beneath bower breast breath breeze bright clouds crown dark dead dear deep doth dream earth Ebenezer Elliott England erth apon erth fair fame flow flowers gaze gleam glide glory grave gray green grove hear heart heaven Henry Alford hills of Surrey king light lone look lord Michael Drayton mighty mountains Muse Nature's night o'er Otterbourne pale pass peace Penshurst praise pride proud Restormel Richard Penlake river roaring Robert Southey Robert Stephen Hawker rock round sail scene shade shore sigh silent silver sing Skiddaw sleep smiling solemn song soul sound spire spirit stars stone STRATFORD-UPON-AVON stream Swanage sweet Thames thee thine thought tide tower trees unto vale voice walls wander waters wave wild William Lisle Bowles William Shakespeare William Wordsworth wind woods
Popular passages
Page 175 - E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the nnhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate...
Page 173 - Await alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death...
Page 193 - For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art, Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart • Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book, Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble, with too much conceiving ; And, so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
Page 138 - There is a gentle Nymph not far from hence, That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream : Sabrina is her name : a virgin pure ; Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine, That had the sceptre from his father Brute. She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuit Of her enraged stepdame, Guendolen, 830 Commended her fair innocence to the flood That stayed her flight with his cross-flowing course. The water-nymphs, that in the bottom played, Held up their pearled wrists, and took her in, Bearing...
Page 46 - And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay. Ho ! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight : ho ! scatter flowers, fair maids : Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute: ho! gallants, draw your blades : Thou sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes, waft her wide; Our glorious SEMPER EADEM, the banner of our pride.
Page 48 - Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth ; High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the north ; And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still: All night from tower to tower they sprang; they sprang from hill to hill...
Page 251 - Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night. The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river : Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery Swift to be hurl'd— Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world!
Page 174 - Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death * Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed. Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre...
Page 191 - (she said), ' whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year : Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal boy ! This can unlock the gates of joy; Of horror that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.
Page 249 - Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing,— Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; ' Not of the stains of her— All that remains of her Now, is pure womanly.