The Village Curate: A Poem ...

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Blunt and Robinson, 1793 - 148

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Strona 46 - A bird's nest. Mark it well, within, without : No tool had he that wrought, no knife to cut, No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert, No glue to join ; his little beak was all, And yet how neatly finished ! What nice hand, With every implement and means of art, And twenty years...
Strona 17 - Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed. The breath of night's destructive to the hue Of every flower that blows. Go to the field, And ask the humble daisy why it sleeps Soon as the sun departs: Why close the eyes Of blossoms infinite, ere the still moon Her oriental veil puts off? Think why, Nor let the sweetest blossom be exposed That nature boasts...
Strona 59 - ... have stood And mark'd thy varied note, and frequent pause, Thy brisk and melancholy mood, with soul Sincerely pleas'd. ' And O, methought, no note Can equal thine, sweet bird, of all that sing How easily the chief ! Yet have I heard What pleases me still more — the human voice In serious sweetness flowing from the heart Of unaffected woman. I could hark Till the round world dissolv'd, to the pure strain Love teaches, gentle modesty inspires.
Strona 3 - OF Man's firft difobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree, whofe mortal tafte Brought death into the world, and all our woe...
Strona 39 - Leave we them to mend, and mark The melancholy hyacinth, that weeps All night, and never lifts an eye all day. How gay this meadow ! — like a gamesome boy New cloth'd, his locks fresh comb'd and powder'd, he All health and spirits. Scarce so many stars Shine in the azure canopy of heav'n, As king-cups here are scatter'd, interspers'd With silver daisies.
Strona 59 - And often have I stood to hear it sung, When the clear moon, -with Cytherean smile Emerging from an eastern cloud, has shot A look of pure benevolence and joy Into the heart of night. Yes, I have stood And mark'd thy varied note, and frequent pause, Thy brisk and melancholy mood, with soul Sincerely pleas'd.
Strona 118 - Where waves the leaf, Or rings with harmony the merry vale ? Day's harbinger no song performs, no song Or solo anthem deigns sweet Philomel. The golden woodpecker laughs loud no more. The pye no longer prates, no longer scolds The saucy jay. Who sees the goldfinch now The feathered groundsel pluck, or hears him sing In bower of apple blossoms perched.
Strona 5 - Turns his warm afpeft, yet with blofibms hung Of cherry, and of peach, lives happy ftill The reverend Alcanor. On a hill, Half way between the fummit and a brook That idly wanders at the foot, it ftands, And looks into a valley wood-befprent, That winds along below.
Strona 52 - I love to meet A sudden turn like this, which stops me short, Extravagantly devious, and invites Or up the hill or down ; then winds again, By reeling drunkard trod, and sudden ends In a green swarded wain-way, not unlike Cathedral aisle completely rooPd with boughs, Which stretching up-hill through the gloomy wood Displays at either end a giant door Wide open'd.
Strona 35 - And sheds her lasting perfume, but for which We had not known there was a thing so sweet Hid in the gloomy shade. So when the blast Her sister tribes confounds, and to the earth Stoops their high heads, that vainly were exposed, She feels it not, but flourishes anew, Still shelter'd and secure.

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