A Buckeye Abroad: Or, Wanderings in Europe, and in the Orient

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Moore, Anderson & Company, 1854 - 444 pages
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Page 413 - The moon on the east oriel shone, Through slender shafts of shapely stone, By foliaged tracery combined ; Thou would'st have thought some fairy's hand, "Twixt poplars straight, the osier wand, In many a freakish knot, had twined ; Then framed a spell, when the work was done, And changed the willow wreaths to stone.
Page 144 - Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer cloud, Without our special wonder...
Page 210 - The Isles of Greece THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, — Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set. The...
Page 388 - Witty above her sexe, but that's not all, Wise to Salvation was good Mistris Hall, Something of Shakespeare was in that, but this Wholy of him with whom she's now in blisse. Then, Passenger, ha'st ne're a teare, To weep with her that wept with all ? That wept yet set herself to chere Them up with comforts cordiall.
Page 254 - Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun: Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light!
Page 203 - God that made the world, and all things therein, seeing that he is Lord of heaven and earth, dwelleth not in temples made with hands...
Page 433 - When all is done (he concludes), human life is at the greatest and the best but like a froward child, that must be played with, and humoured a little, to keep it quiet, till it falls asleep, and then the care is over.
Page 386 - For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art, Thy easy numbers flow; and that each heart Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book, Those Delphic lines with deep impression took; Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much conceiving ; And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie, That kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die.
Page 382 - I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine...
Page 299 - Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains, They crowned him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.

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