Pilgrimages to Old Homes: Mostly on the Welsh Border

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The author, 1903 - 405 pagini
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Pagina 317 - This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve By his loved mansionry that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here : no jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle : Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed The air is delicate.
Pagina 211 - My Lord of Ely, when I was last in Holborn, I saw good strawberries in your garden there : I do beseech you send for some of them.
Pagina 239 - These fertile plains, that soften'd vale, Were once the birthright of the Gael ; The stranger came with iron hand, And from our fathers reft the land. Where dwell we now ! See, rudely swell Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell Ask we this savage hill we tread, For...
Pagina 40 - Pity the sorrows of a poor old man ! Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span; Oh ! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.
Pagina 62 - And children coming home from school Look in at the open door ; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
Pagina 77 - For over all there hung a cloud of fear ; A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is haunted...
Pagina 163 - Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves, And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves. The free fair homes of England, Long, long, in hut and hall, May hearts of native proof be reared To guard each hallowed wall. And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God.
Pagina 29 - Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, And I said, " If there's peace to be found in the world, A heart that is humble might hope for it here...
Pagina 239 - Pent in this fortress of the North, Think'st thou we will not sally forth, To spoil the spoiler as we may, And from the robber rend the prey ? Ay, by my soul!
Pagina 24 - Rome shall perish — write that word In the blood that she has spilt ; Perish, hopeless and abhorred, Deep in ruin as in guilt.

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