Lillian, and other poems

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Strona 133 - And nothings for Sylvanus Urban. He did not think all mischief fair, Although he had a knack of joking; He did not make himself a bear, Although he had a taste for smoking. And when religious sects ran mad He held, in spite of all his learning, That if a man's belief is bad It will not be improved by burning.
Strona 142 - She smiled on many just for fun ; I knew that there was nothing in it ; I was the first — the only — one Her heart had thought of for a minute : I knew it, for she told me so In phrase which was divinely moulded. She wrote a charming hand, and oh How sweetly all her notes were folded I Our love was like most other loves — A little glow, a little shiver, A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And
Strona 133 - He was a shrewd and sound Divine, Of loud Dissent the mortal terror; And when, by dint of page and line, He 'stablished Truth, or startled Error, The Baptist found him far too deep; The Deist sighed with saving sorrow; And the lean Levite went to sleep, And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow.
Strona 131 - THE VICAR. Some years ago, ere time and taste Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, And roads as little known as scurvy, The man who lost his way, between St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, Was always shown across the green, And guided to the Parson's wicket. Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ; Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveller up the path, Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle ; And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, Upon the parlour steps...
Strona 184 - No!" He must walk like a god of old story, Come down from the home of his rest; He must smile like the sun in his glory, On the buds he loves ever the best ; And, oh ! from its ivory portal, Like music his soft speech must flow ! — If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, My own Araminta, say "No!
Strona 264 - Go, call him by his name; No fitter hand may crave To light the flame of a soldier's fame On the turf of a soldier's grave!
Strona 186 - I've often been out upon Haldon To look for a covey with pup; I've often been over to Shaldon, To see how your boat is laid up: In spite of the terrors of Aunty, I've ridden the filly you broke; And I've studied your sweet little Dante In the shade of your favourite oak: When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence, I sat in your love of a shawl; And I'll wear what you brought me from Florence, Perhaps, if you'll come to our Ball.
Strona 207 - Tis noon. The ranks are broken, along the royal line They fly, the braggarts of the court ! the bullies of the Rhine ! Stout Langdale's cheer is heard no more, and Astley's helm is down, And Rupert sheathes his rapier, with a curse and with a frown, And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in their flight, " The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night.
Strona 141 - Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading; She botanized ; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading; She warbled Handel ; it was grand — She made the Catalan!
Strona 142 - Fly not yet" — upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows, — and then we parted. We parted ; months and years...

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