An Englishman in Ireland: Impressions of a Journey in a Canoe by River, Lough and Canal

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J. M. Dent & sons, 1910 - 264 pages

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Page 241 - Wept o'er his wounds or tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began.
Page 143 - How sweet the answer Echo makes To Music at night When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, And far away o'er lawns and lakes Goes answering light ! Yet Love hath echoes truer far And far more sweet Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star, Of horn or lute or soft guitar The songs repeat. 'Tis when the sigh, — in youth sincere And only then, The sigh that's breathed for one to hear — Is by that one, that only Dear Breathed back again.
Page 241 - Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden -flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year...
Page 225 - I followed him a mile asking a thousand questions. At length I quitted him, finding by this remarkable observation that perseverance was useless. " I see by your dress that you are a rich man. They have injured me and mine a million times — you appear to be well intentioned, but I have no security of it while you live in such a house as that, or wear such clothes as those. It would be charity to quit me.
Page 239 - Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Page 252 - Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places, Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor, Hills of sheep, and the homes of the silent vanished races, And winds, austere and pure : Be it granted me to behold you again in dying, Hills of home! and to hear again the call; Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying, And hear no more at all.
Page 239 - Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
Page 252 - BLOWS the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying, Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now, Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying, My heart remembers how!
Page 72 - But straightway there arose a spray and a mist from the trampling of the heroes, and through the mist their forms moved hugely, like two giants of the Fomoroh contending in a storm. But the war-demons, too contended around them fighting, the Bocanahs and Bananahs, the wild people of the glens, and the demons of the air...
Page 36 - ... bittern's boom, a desert make Which no false art refines. Down in yon watery nook, Where bearded mists divide, The gray old gods whom Chaos knew, The sires of Nature, hide. Aloft, in secret veins of air, Blows the sweet breath of song, O, few to scale those uplands dare, Though they to all belong! See thou bring not to field or stone The fancies found in books; Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own, To brave the landscape's looks.

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