Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beauty's self. The Seasons: Autumn. In beauty, faults conspicuous grow; The smallest speck is seen on snow. Fables: Peacock, Turkey, and Goose. J. THOMSON. The maid who modestly conceals The Spider and the Bee. J. GAY. E. MOORE. Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good; A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, BELL. Tuned be its metal mouth alone To things eternal and sublime. And as the swift-winged hours speed on Song of the Bell. F. SCHILLER. Trans. E. A. BOWRING. The bells themselves are the best of preachers, From their pulpits of stone, in the upper air, H. W. LONGFELLOW. And the Sabbath bell, That over wood and wild and mountain dell Sweet Sunday bells! your measured sound Of all these golden fields around, And range of mountain, sunshine-drowned. Sunday Bells. W. ALLINGHAM. Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh. Hamlet, Act iii. Sc. 1. SHAKESPEARE. Seize the loud, vociferous bells, and Clashing, clanging to the pavement Hurl them from their windy tower! Christus: The Golden Legend. Prologue. H. W. LONGFELLOW. Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news K. Henry IV., Pt. II. Act i. Sc. 1. BIBLE. My Book and Heart Must never part. SHAKESPEARE. New England Primer. And better had they ne'er been born, Who read to doubt, or read to scorn. The Monastery. SIR W. SCOTT. God, in the gospel of his Son, The Glory of the Scriptures. Holy Bible, book divine, Precious treasure, thou art mine; Mine to chide me when I rove, Holy Bible, Book Divine. B. BEDDOME. J. BURTON. The heavens declare thy glory, Lord; God's Word and Works. DR. I. WATTS. Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true. Truth. W. COWPER. A glory gilds the sacred page, It gives a light to every age, Olney Hymns. It gives, but borrows none. W. COWPER. Starres are poore books, and oftentimes do misse ; This book starres lights to eternal blisse. The Church: The Holy Scriptures, Pt. II. BIRDS. G. HERBERT. Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these? Alone are the interpreters of thought? Whose household words are songs in many keys, Tales of a Wayside Inn:. The Poet's Tale. H. W. LONGFELLOW. I shall not ask Jean Jaques Rousseau W. COWPER. Pairing Time Anticipated. Whither away, Bluebird, Whither away? The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky The hue of May. J. THOMSON. Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? ah, why, Thou too, whose song first told us of the Spring? Whither away? Flight of Birds. E. C. STEDMAN. The crack-brained bobolink courts his crazy mate, Poised on a bulrush tipsy with his weight. Spring. O. W. HOLMES. One day in the bluest of summer weather, I heard five bobolinks laughing together, Bird Language. Sing away, ay, sing away, Always gayest of the gay, C. P. CRANCH. Though your life from youth to age The Canary in his Cage. D. M. MULOCK CRAIK. The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat Hamlet, Act i. Sc. 1. SHAKESPEARE. Bird of the broad and sweeping wing, Thy home is high in heaven, Where wide the storms their banners fling, To the Eagle. J. G. PERCIVAL. Where the hawk, J. THOMSON. High in the beetling cliff, his aëry builds. The Seasons: Spring. And the humming-bird that hung Like a jewel up among The tilted honeysuckle horns They mesmerized and swung In the palpitating air, Drowsed with odors strange and rare, And, with whispered laughter, slipped away The South Wind and the Sun. "Most musical, most melancholy J. W. RILEY. bird! A melancholy bird! Oh! idle thought! The Nightingale. S. T. COLERIDGE. Then from the neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, wild est of singers, Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water, Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious music, That the whole air and the woods and the waves seemed silent to listen. Evangeline, Pt. II. H. W. LONGFELLOW. Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed. The Village Curate. Song. The merry lark he soars on high, J. HURDIS. H. COLERIDGE. What bird so sings, yet so does wail? JOHN LYLY. O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Portend success in love. To the Nightingale. MILTON. O honey-throated warbler of the grove! To the Nightingale. C. T. TURNER. Lend me your song, ye Nightingales! O, pour Into my varied verse. The Seasons: Spring. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark J. THOMSON. The nightingale, if she should sing by day, When every goose is cackling, would be thought How many things by season seasoned are To their right praise and true perfection. Merchant of Venice, Act v. Sc. 1. SHAKESPEARE. |