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aroon beauty blessed blood blow blue brave breast breath bright cheek cold comes dark dead dear death deep dream earth eyes face fair fairy fall Father fear feet flow flowers forever friends give gold golden gone grave gray green grows hair hand hath head hear heard heart heaven hills hope hour Ireland Irish land leave light live lonely look meet morning mother mountain never night o'er once pale pass poor rest rise river rose round shore side sing sleep smile soft song sorrow soul sound spirit stand star strong summer sweet tears tell thee there's thou thought thousand true turn Twas voice watch waters wave wild wind wood young youth
Pàgina 13 - We may not know, we cannot tell, what pains he had to bear, but we believe it was for us he hung and suffered there.
Pàgina 360 - Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. " Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still ; And though my portion is but scant, I give it with good will.
Pàgina 366 - When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray ; What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away ? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom — is to die.
Pàgina 364 - I'll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay. And there, forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die: 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I.
Pàgina 120 - Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir, Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle.
Pàgina 64 - In happy climes, where from the genial sun, And virgin earth such scenes ensue, The force of art by nature seems outdone, And fancied beauties by the true...
Pàgina 28 - He's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights, To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights.
Pàgina 45 - Oh — no! I wish I were a Robin. A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go; Through forest, field or garden, And ask no leave or pardon, Till winter comes with icy thumbs To ruffle up our wing!
Pàgina 359 - When she has walk'd before. But now, her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all; The doctors found, when she was dead, — Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent Street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more — She had not died to-day.
Pàgina 259 - The corn was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high — And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary, The day is bright as then, The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again ; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek, And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more may speak.