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Page 173 - ... O'er his low bed may weep. One sleeps where southern vines are drest Above the noble slain : He wrapt his colours round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain. And one — o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fanned ; She faded midst Italian flowers — The last of that bright band. And parted thus they rest, who played Beneath the same green tree ; Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent knee...
Page 169 - If we look to what the waters produce, shoals of the fry of fish frequent the margins of rivers, of lakes, and of the sea itself. These are so happy, that they know not what to do with themselves. Their attitudes, their vivacity, their leaps out of the water, their frolics in it (\vhich I have noticed a thousand times with equal attention and amusement,) all conduce to show their excess of spirits, and are simply the effects of that excess.
Page 46 - I pass'd by his garden, and saw the wild brier, The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher; The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags; And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.
Page 168 - ... we happen to be better acquainted than we are with that of others. The whole winged insect tribe, it is probable, are equally intent upon their proper employments, and, under every variety of constitution, gratified, and perhaps equally gratified by the offices which the Author of their nature has assigned to them.
Page 175 - He binds skates to his feet, and skims over the frozen lakes. His breath is piercing and cold, and no little flower dares to peep above the surface of the ground, when he is by. Whatever he touches turns to ice.
Page 161 - ... dewy morning, while the woods are already vocal with a multitude of warblers, his admirable song rises pre-eminent over every competitor. The ear can listen to his music alone, to which that of all the others seems a mere accompaniment.
Page 168 - It is a happy world after all. The air, the earth, the water, teem with delighted existence. In a spring noon, or a summer evening, on whichever side I turn my eyes, myriads of happy beings crowd upon my view. "The insect youth are on the wing.
Page 45 - Tis the voice of the Sluggard; I heard him complain: 'You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.
Page 168 - The air, the earth, the water, teem with delighted existence. In a spring noon, or a summer evening, on whichever side I turn my eyes, myriads of happy beings crowd upon my view. " The insect youth are on the wing." Swarms of new-born flies are trying their pinions in the air. Their sportive motions, their wanton mazes, their gratuitous activity, their continual change of place without use or purpose, testify their joy, and the exultation which they feel in their lately discovered faculties.