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Page 247 - The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armour against fate ; Death lays his icy hand on kings : Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Page 150 - s their estate ; To smile for joy than sigh for woe, To be content than to be great. " How far less blest am I than them ! Daily to pine and waste with care, Like the poor plant, that, from its stem Divided, feels the chilling air. " Nor, cruel Earl ! can I enjoy The humble charms of solitude; Your minions proud my peace destroy, By sullen frowns or pratiugs rude. " Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, The village death-bell smote my ear; They winked aside, and seemed to say, ' Countess, prepare,...
Page 174 - To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near, Here lies the friend most lov'd, the son most dear : Who ne'er knew joy, but friendship might divide, Or gave his father grief but when he dy'd.
Page 197 - And they came unto the brook of Eshcol and cut down from thence a branch with one cluster of grapes and they bare it between two upon a staff; and they brought of the pomegranates and of the figs.
Page 218 - The like was never seene. Most curiously that bower was built, Of stone and timber strong; An hundered and fifty doors Did to this bower belong: And they so cunninglye contriv'd, With turnings round about, That none but with a clue of thread Could enter in or out.
Page 358 - In this our spacious isle, I think there is not one, But he hath heard some talk of him and Little John ; And to the end of time, the tales shall ne'er be done, Of Scarlock, George-a-Green, and Much the miller's son, Of Tuck the merry friar, which many a sermon made In praise of Robin Hood, his outlaws, and their trade.
Page 266 - That yestermorn bloom'd waving in the breeze ; Sounds the most faint attract the ear, — the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating, midway up the hill. Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
Page 150 - The oaks were shatter'd on the green , Woe was the hour — for never more That hapless Countess e'er was seen! And in that Manor now no more Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball; For ever since that dreary hour Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. The village maids, with fearful glance, Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall; Nor ever lead the merry dance Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. Full many a traveller oft hath sigh'd, And pensive wept the Countess' fall, As wand'ring onwards they've espied The haunted...