Puslapio vaizdai

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings ;
Our meddling intellect
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things;
-We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;


these barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.



The little hedge-row birds That peck along the road, regard him not. He travels on, and in his face, his step, His gait, is one expression ; every limb, His look and bending figure, all bespeak A man who does not move with pain, but moves With thought.--He is insensibly subdued To settled quiet: he is one by whom All effort seems forgotten; one to whom Long patience hath such mild composure given, That patience now doth seem a thing of which He hath no need. He is by nature led

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To peace so perfect, that the young behold
With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels.
-I asked him whither he was bound, and what
The object of his journey : he replied
That he was going many miles to take
A last leave of his Son, a Mariner,
Who from a sea-fight had been brought to Fat-

And there was dying in an hospital.



Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is 't that ails young Harry Gill ?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still.
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle gray, and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.

d 2

In March, December, and in July, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, His teeth they chatter, chatter still. At night, at morning, and at noon, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; Beneath the sun, beneath the

moon, His teeth they chatter, chatter still.

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he ?

His cheeks were red as ruddy clover ;

His voice was like the voice of three.

Old Goody Blake was old and poor ;
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who pass'd her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.

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