A Buckeye Abroad: Or, Wanderings in Europe, and in the Orient

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G. P. Putnam, 1852 - 444页

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第413页 - The moon on the east oriel shone, Through slender shafts of shapely stone, By foliaged tracery combined ; Thou would'st have thought some fairy's hand, "Twixt poplars straight, the osier wand, In many a freakish knot, had twined ; Then framed a spell, when the work was done, And changed the willow wreaths to stone.
第144页 - Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer cloud, Without our special wonder...
第210页 - The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse; Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires
第370页 - And who, in time, knows whither we may vent The treasure of our tongue, to what strange shores This gain of our best glory shall be sent, T' enrich unknowing nations with our stores? What worlds in th' yet unformed Occident May come refined with th
第388页 - Witty above her sexe, but that's not all, Wise to Salvation was good Mistris Hall, Something of Shakespeare was in that, but this Wholy of him with whom she's now in blisse. Then, Passenger, ha'st ne're a teare, To weep with her that wept with all ? That wept yet set herself to chere Them up with comforts cordiall.
第254页 - Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun: Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light!
第203页 - God that made the world, and all things therein, seeing that he is Lord of heaven and earth, dwelleth not in temples made with hands...
第433页 - When all is done (he concludes), human life is at the greatest and the best but like a froward child, that must be played with, and humoured a little, to keep it quiet, till it falls asleep, and then the care is over.
第386页 - 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.
第382页 - I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine...

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